Hanging On By A Thread
by NorthKai
Summary: Legolas made a mistake. He had underestimated the band of orcs that marched around Mirkwood's borders, and now the blood was on his hands. Thraduil doesn't understand. No one understands when the mind can't escape a trauma and instead continues to replay it over and over again until one either succumbs to madness or darkness. Which will Legolas choose? Rated M: Violence,torture,etc
1. Chapter 1

_11/12/2018 UPDATE: It was brought to my attention that there was a format problem with Chapter 2. That has been fixed. No clue what happened but thank you for letting me know!_

 _**Author Note: Hello there! This is my first LOTR fanfic, so please be gentle, though helpful criticism is appreciated. I also would like to warn that it's rated M for a reason. Violence, torture, blood, PTSD flashbacks, and other things that I come up with along the way are bound to happen in here. So, please beware and don't read if that stuff may bother you._

 _Though I love LOTR and the Hobbit both books and movies, I am not—I repeat—am not, a Tolkien lore professional. I did my best to stay within the correct lore, but without doing some heavy research I admit I might have missed some things. So, I apologize for that._

 _This story takes place after the Hobbit, and before LOTR. It's a slightly altered universe in that after the Battle of the Five Armies, Tauriel and Legolas return to their posts in Mirkwood. Besides that I tried to remain in and around the movie's universe._

 _I really hope you like this. Please let me know what you think in a review 3_

Chapter 1.

"So this is how it ends." The terrified elf whispered to himself.

"Keep faith Nordirion," Tauriel whispered, "We are not dead yet. There is still hope if you believe in it."

Legolas could feel the frightened elf shaking beside him, but he remained silent for he did not have the same gift as Tauriel did when it came to soothing those less strong. Instead, the prince scanned the area in hopes of finding a way out of their predicament.

None of them had foreseen the impromptu scouting mission going so horribly wrong. They had left Mirkwood with ten, and were now only four.

Tied to a large monolith out in the middle of the the grassy plains, Legolas's only landmark on where they were was the faint sound of rushing water he presumed was the River Celduin close by.

They had only been a few leagues from the Mirkwood's borders when they had come upon the band of orcs trudging along the forest's edge. A band of twenty-five, Legolas and Tauriel had silently agreed on the ambush, presuming it to be a regular day in clearing out the orc trash.

Once the fight had commenced, they were shocked and horrified to find crafty traps set up by the seemingly unsuspecting orcs.

The ground on which they attacked was set to explode at the lightest touch. Fire and metal shrapnel had burst forth, killing several of their party without a single orc blade falling.

The gleeful shrieks and hollers made by the orcs as they watched the elves demise with each exploding landmine still echoed in Legolas's ears and made his blood boil. The vile creatures had rejoiced as they watched their traps go off one by one across the line of wide-eyed elves.

Legolas could admit his pride was hurt as well as his heart, for he had never fallen to such trickery before.

The sound of the explosion flashed across his mind's eye. A mine had gone off to his right. The blast had sliced like daggers through his sensitive elf ear-drums causing him to be temporarily crippled by the pain searing through his skull.

One of his men who went by the name Ferion had stepped on the hidden explosive and had been ripped to shreds in the blink of an eye. Ferion's blood and bits of flesh and bone still clung to Legolas's clothing.

Tauriel had been beside an explosion on the other side of the line and the elf who had triggered the trap had perished instantly. But, Legolas had heard Tauriel scream from more than just surprise; a long, slender piece of metal shrapnel had embedded itself into her side.

At the time, Legolas had still expected them to turn the fight around; getting help for his friend in the aftermath. But between the multiple ground mines and well-prepared orcs, they had been unable to win, and only four of them remained.

An older elf by the name of Gadrion was tied to Legolas's left, while the quaking Nordirion was to his right. Tauriel was to his back on the other side of the large stone that they were all tied to.

"I don't want to die." Nordirion's voice trembled, "I didn't even say goodbye to my amil *mother* or nesa *sister* this morning, I expected we'd be back by the evening meal."

"You'll see your mother again." Tauriel whispered words of reassurance, "Be strong. Help will come soon"

But Legolas wasn't so sure of his Guard Captain's statement. After being thrown to the ground by one of the largest orcs he had ever encountered, the creatures had bound his hands and covered his face so that the distance traveled and landmarks along the way were completely hidden to him; he was almost positive it was the River Celduin that he was hearing in the distance, but that river ran a long and winding course through leagues and leagues of grassland, veering off and running to either the Iron Mountains to the north or ending in the Sea of Rhun to the south. If a search party was in fact coming to their rescue, he wasn't sure how long it would take for them to find them.

Twisting his wrists, Legolas discretely tested the ropes that held him. To his disappointment, they were painfully secure. The thick, scratchy rope they all shared around their chests was secured tightly as well.

Though they had attacked the band of orcs midday, night had now fallen and the autumn chill settled on the land. A clear night sky full of starlight brought some comfort to the captive elves, but the direness of their situation hung heavy on them all.

"Pick one for now." A large orc that was seated over by a campfire a few yards away ordered a smaller, hunched back orc.

"But we're starving." The smaller orc hissed. Legolas saw the putrid green and yellow eyes glance their way. "We've had nothing but rabbits and ground squirrels for weeks. Let us have two." The creature begged in a shrill voice.

The larger orc looked their way—small, pointed teeth could been seen as the creature stared at them, mouth agape and salivating at the thought of elven flesh.

"Oh Eru." Nordirion cried quietly to himself.

"Quiet!" Legolas hissed. A part of him felt guilty for chiding the scared elf for he knew he was young and inexperienced, but the prince also knew that if the orcs saw his weakness they'd likely pick him out of the group.

The orc stood from its seat on a toppled stone pillar and walked with the hunchback orc to where Legolas and the others were tied.

Nordirion was directly facing the camp and therefore could see as the two monsters walked towards them, hunger in their eyes.

Legolas closed his eyes as he felt the ropes around his chest tremble from Nordirion's fright. He tried to calm himself in the hopes of resonating the quiet to the shaking elf. A wave of calm washed over him and he knew Tauriel was doing the same on the other side.

A sludgy snort and cough came from the large orc as he and the smaller orc slowly walked around the monolith, examining all the prisoners.

Gadrion, an older elf with much more battlefield experience, remained stoic as the orc leaned into him and sniffed.

The hairs on Legolas's neck rose at the close proximity of the filthy creatures. Trying the ropes around his wrists again in hopes of some change, he was once again met with only disappointment.

"This one." The large orc smiled fiendishly while pointing at Nordirion, he's young and tender."

Legolas's heart fell heavy in his chest. From behind him he heard Tauriel's quiet gasp.

"I want to play with this one." The small orc to his left snickered.

"Don't touch me you vile creature." Tauriel snapped.

The thought of Tauriel being harmed in any way sent an icy dagger through Legolas's heart and he turned to his left as far as he could, "Do not touch her. Take me instead!"

The orc slithered it's way over to him and got within mere inches of the prince's face. Cocking its head, the vulture-looking creature sniffed again.

"Why should I listen to you?" The orc's jaw snapped twice like a snapping turtle.

"This, first." The larger orc interrupted. Waiving seven other orcs over to them, three lined themselves up face to face with the prisoners.

The orc now standing in front of Legolas was large and black with a short upturned snout and tight, cracked lips that displayed a row of pointed, yellow teeth.

The prince almost gagged as the creature exhaled in front of him. The smell of rotten flesh and dung was enough to send him hurling. But before he lost the contents of his stomach, the orc in front of Nordirion shouted a command and the creature in front of him slammed a large, rough hand against his throat, pinning him firmly to the stone.

"Take this one." Legolas heard the orc to his right order and the ropes around his chest loosened.

"No, Eru. Please. No." Nordirion pleaded as two orcs grabbed his arms and yanked the terrified elf towards the center of camp.

With the ropes loosened, Legolas strained to get free of the creature's grasp. Shaking side to side was not producing anything, so he went for a front kick that landed square in the creatures abdomen, causing it to cripple over in pain.

The hold on his throat released and Legolas dove to the ground and rolled, avoiding another orcs attempt to grab him.

Hands still tied behind his back, the prince nimbly leapt up from the ground and swung around, kicking an oncoming orc across the face and slamming the creature to the ground.

Just as he took a step toward the orcs dragging Nordirion towards the center of camp, something struck him hard from behind.

A splitting pain erupted in the back of his skull and he was thrown forward onto his knees. He tried to regain his stance. He tried to lift his head from it's bowed position, but the muscles spasmed in retaliation. Moving his eyes to look further in front of him caused the earth to swoosh back and forth in a sickening motion to where he lost his balance and fell on his side.

Trying to regain his equilibrium, Legolas felt a large hand at the back of his neck lift him off the ground and march him back toward his place on the stone.

There, he was shoved back to his original place. Slowly, his head cleared. He heard Noldorin scream, but he couldn't see him. His vision still swam slightly, and a dull, vibrating pain emanated from the wound on the back of his head.

"This should stop you from trying that again." The orc who he had kicked in the chest growled, and out of the corner of his eye Legolas saw a black form swish downward.

A mind shattering pain burst from the prince's left ankle as the orcs wooden mace slammed into the his leg.

The prince bit down hard on his tongue to prevent himself from yelling from the intense agony that filled his body. One of the first rules of battle was to never show weakness. Don't let the enemy know they're breaking you. And that's exactly what Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm did, though it took every ounce of strength he had.

The bones were shattered. Pain ran up his leg like electric tentacles, burning every muscle fiber and bone they met.

Through the haze of pain, Legolas heard more screams, but they were not his own. The blackness approached the corners of his vision and as he looked to his right, all he could see was the orange glow of the campfire against the darkness, and black figures moving in front of it.

The screams were rising in volume and length. Legolas's heartbeat slammed against his chest at the agonizing sound. He craned his stiff neck to try and see who the owner of the screams was, but the orc who he had assaulted punched him back—head cracking against the stone—where blackness overtook him.

The crackling of a fire was the first thing that met the prince's ears. Slow, steady popping, a log shifting as the fire ate away at it's fibrous bones. There was another sound that was less familiar, a crunching, moist movement he couldn't place.

Then, within the blackness came the pain, blooming forth from below, it crawled up to him from the void. His lower leg, that's where it was coming from. He vaguely remembered something happening to his leg, but couldn't quite bring the memory back from the fog. He tried to move his head and was met with a long, electric shock that started from the base of his skull and stretched into his shoulders. The ligaments of his neck had been stretched too long with his hanging head and now protested any movement.

The crunching, slurping sounds met his ears again and he felt his stomach churn.

Then, the smell hit him. Wood burning. Smoke. And, something else. Something wrong. Burnt. Charred. Blackened. He couldn't place what the smell was but it sickened him.

Lifting his head, the prince fought through his muscle's protests and leaned his head back gently against the cold, bumpy stone.

It was still dark, though he felt the dawn creeping towards the horizon; the stars had dwindled at their posts in the night sky.

From the corner of his eye he saw the fire. Glowing in it's fiery brilliance, the shadowy figures now huddled around it. That's where the gruesome noises were coming from, and that smell.

One darkened figure's head wrenched to the side, and Legolas saw something tear from the object it was holding.

Slurp. Chomp. Mash. The sounds were of something being eaten.

Moving his eyes from the fire, he tried to make sense of the darkened figures. Four orcs were hunched around the campfire eating. Two others orcs—whose faces he could see better as the firelight danced across their grotesque features—stood nearby eating at something as well.

Around the campfire were several large rocks, remnants of an old shrine of some sort. It now lay broken into chunks across the ground. There were things laid across some of the stones— tools, weapons—that was the best he could make out from where he was tied.

Then, as the prince continued to strain his eyes to focus, he saw something protruding upwards from a rock on the other side of the fire. An orc's body blocked most of his view.

The prince strained his blue eyes to make out what was on the rock. Something brown in color. It reminded him of long strands of wheat grass after it had been cut down for harvest. Just before the object disappeared behind the orc's back, he saw a lighter color, a pale color with a purple undertone.

The orc who's back faced him decided to get up from it's place at the fire, and what met Legolas's eyes made his insides twist.

It was a head. The object on the rock was a dismembered head. The slack jawed face was that of the young elf Nordirion, and the sounds of something being eaten was the young elf's corpse—his torso still skewered above the fire.

Legolas felt like he had been hit in the head again. His heart cried for the young elf and his demise; guilt clawed at him for his own inability to save Nordirion from such a unspeakable fate.

From behind him, Legolas heard a faint cry. Tauriel. She was quietly weeping; most likely having witnessed Nordirion's slaughter in its gruesome entirety.

Legolas yearned for words; any words that would offer her comfort, anything to mend her hurting heart. But, as usual—he had none. And from where he was tied he could not even offer his friend any form of physical comfort.

The light of dawn began to creep over the forest trees in the distance, the soft morning light gliding across each blade of grass in the field.

Watching the grasses sway in the gentle morning breeze only caused a sickness to rise in Legolas's stomach, for it only reminded him of the long strands of brown hair that still hung from Nordirion's severed head.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Cold, blue eyes scanned the parchment given to him by his scout.

"Where are the orcs headed?" The elf-king asked, shifting his gaze to the young Silvan female standing before him.

"We found their tracks just past the River Celduin." She replied. A young elf, the scout stood poised, back straight and chest out; her hazel eyes remained locked on the floor before the king. "We believe they're headed south around the forest's perimeter and then to Dol Guldur."

Thranduil's stoic face flashed with understanding, "You are sure my son is with them?"

"He was not among the dead, your majesty." The scout replied with a slight head bow, "We searched within a one league circle of where we found the bodies, all but four bodies were recovered—those of Prince Legolas, Guard Captain Tauriel, scout Gadrion and Nordirion."

"How could a band of lowly orcs kill an entire elven defense force." The elf-king questioned; his lips pressed tightly in a fine line as he plucked at a stray thread on his robe.

The she-elf's hazel eyes grew wide as her slender brown brows drew together, "Explosives, sire. It appears the orcs were expecting them and set traps that exploded fire and shrapnel with even the lightest step."

"How would they have known of the approach?" Thranduil questioned, twisting and rolling the amputated thread in between his thumb, index and middle fingers

The scout swallowed, "That, we are unsure of at the moment, sire. We think the orcs may have been testing their devices and knew we would approach them so close to the forest border."

Thranduil paused for a moment, his gaze passing through the young she-elf and further through his palace walls. With a slight nod of his regal head, "Understood. Send fifty men to rescue the survivors. Cover ground night and day, I want these orcs dealt with swiftly." The king crumpled the piece of paper in his hand and glared at the she-elf, "Is that understood?"

With a straight backed bow the Silvan scout replied, "Yes, my liege."

Once the scout departed, Thranduil rose from his throne of twisting branches and stepped down the winding stairs, leaving his throne room to his guards. He had to send a letter to Lady Galadriel and Elrond of the news of more possible happenings within Dol Guldur. For ages now they had watched the fortress; it had appeared to be dead, but for a while now the darkness had been growing in the back of all their minds—the evil within the ruined fortress had been merely sleeping.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The orcs slept the daylight hours away, only waking to change guard. The sun beat down upon the prisoners, but the air remained cool and dry as a brisk breeze blew by.

Legolas stayed awake the entire day, watching for any chance to escape; avoiding the dead stare of Nordirion's severed head still mounted on the rock.

The young elf's bones now lay scattered around the camp, strings of tendon and muscle hung from the partially cleaned bones. The lifeblood of the unfortunate elf coated the rocks around the campfire, staining the dead grass beneath.

To the remaining elves horror, a few of the orcs had played a game of hacky sack with their comrades vertebrae before laying down to sleep.

Legolas thought of all the ways he would kill the orcs for what they had done. Through the day he had slowly continued to work the ropes that held his hands, loosening the fibers millimeter by millimeter, keeping the movements small enough that the guards would not catch him.

Once he got free of his bindings, he would lunge at the guard that stood a few paces to his left. His shattered ankle would prevent him from being able to perform more tactile maneuvers, but he could still take down an orc in his current state. With a weapon, he could take down more. He would stay close to the monolith, grab the orc's weapon, and cut Tauriel and Gadrion's bindings.

But, he would have to wait until dawn's next light, for the sky was already turning red with the fading sun.

The orcs began to wake, and with them the surviving elve's growing concern.

A large, long-armed dark-ash grey orc stepped forward from the camp and made its way with four others following behind.

"Untie the prisoners." It ordered with a brisk wave of its arm. The four other orcs nodded and marched over to the elves, rope nooses hung from their hands.

The orc that stood in front of Legolas now placed the rope noose roughly around his neck and tightened it against his throat. A few quick yanks on the lead and the orc nodded that he was ready.

The ropes around his chest suddenly loosened and dropped to his feet. With a yank of the leash, the injured prince was pulled forward. Instinctively, Legolas stepped to catch himself, only to be met by excruciating pain as his left foot made contact with the earth. Unable to withstand the bone crushing sensation, the prince fell to the hard, grass covered earth.

"Get up." The orc on the other end of his lead ordered as it yanked the rope around the elf's neck hard.

"I can not." Legolas growled up at the creature.

From around the monolith, Tauriel suddenly came into view. Auburn hair flowed down her back like the richest silk, and her soft, sun-kissed skin was mired with bruises and a dark red stain bloomed from under her right rib. Legolas's heart leapt into his throat as he saw she was in a much worse condition that he had known.

Just as he, she had a rope leash and was being lead by an ghastly looking orc. Her eyes widened when she saw him on the ground and she mouthed something, but for the life of him he could not decipher what.

Gadrion was released from his place on the stone and was shoved into position behind Tauriel.

Another hard yank on his leash had Legolas's shoulder and face against the dirt, for he could not use his hands nor get his left leg under him to stand

Rough hands grabbed his upper arms on either side and yanked him up.

"Move." The orc to his right ordered.

"Lead the way, orc filth." The prince mocked.

That earned him an elbow to the face. If it wasn't for the guards holding him, he would have flown backwards from the blow.

Tauriel turned and looked behind her. When she saw Legolas's bloodied face, she began to fight her bindings.

"Don't touch him! I swear, you will all be dead by sunrise!"

She caught the orc holding her leash off guard and was able to jerk the lead from its hands. Hands still bound behind her back, she leaned and kicked a pale, sickly looking orc that was walking to her right, then turned and switched legs and took a small black one out on her left.

At the same time, Gadrion tried to break free from his captors as well. Unfortunately, his were better prepared; the orc behind him punched him in the face as he turned to fight, then the orcs trudging beside him grabbed his arms and pushed him onward.

Legolas also tried to get free to help Tauriel in her struggle, twisting in the orcs firm grasp. But it was no use, they had their hold on him and they weren't letting go.

After taking out the orcs on either side, Tauriel tried to quickly undo her bindings to have use of her arms, but the dark orc who had been holding her lead ran up behind her and hit her in the side of the head with his balled fist, throwing her to the ground.

"Nice try, elf-bitch." The orc sneered as it towered over her, "But there's no escape from here except in death; which you will be begging for shortly."

They were led to the other side of the camp where three slender standing stones stood close to each other. It looked as if at one point in time, the three pillars had shared a stone roof of some kind, which now lay in pieces around them on the ground.

"Tie them up." Ordered the ash-grey orc, "Time for some fun. Let's see what they're made of."

The rope around Legolas's hands was suddenly severed. The orcs that held him standing each grabbed a wrist and wrapped him tightly around one of the stone pillars. There, he felt the ropes quickly rebind his wrists—this time stretched on either side of the rock.

His bruised face grazed the rock he leaned upon and when he pulled away he was surprised to see a smear of blood. The orc that elbowed him must have hit hard enough to actually draw blood; he wasn't happy about that humiliating thought.

Though he was faced forward on the rock, he was able to turn to see his fellow elves on either side of him. Tauriel was bound to the rock on his right, while Gadrion was to his left.

From behind him, he felt a blade slice through his belt. Then, he felt a knife blade graze down his back, down the seam of his suede hide armor and straight through his tunic beneath. A hiss escaped his lips as he shifted as far as he could onto the stone, instinctively avoiding the cold, sharp metal.

A muffled rip resounded as an orc wrenched the leather jerkin apart and then tore off the shredded shirt beneath, exposing his neck and back.

He felt a tug at the hem of his pants and was mortified when he felt the knife slice the waistline, subsequently the thick fabric began to fall down his legs.

Too lazy to hassle with the prince's thick leather boots, the orc sliced his pants away at the knees.

Legolas sighed inwardly to himself as the orc moved away from stripping him; taking the boot off his left ankle was an event he was hoping to avoid. The slender shaft of his boot was bracing the broken bones and keeping them somewhat together; it's removal would most certainly cause more movement impairment and pain.

There was a gasp from his right and he turned to see Tauriel experiencing the same act. The pale, sickly orc from before sliced her forest green tunic and leather corset. With both hands the creature ripped his hands outward, tearing the clothing away from her back and letting it hang in shreds from her arms. The orc then did the same as had been done to Legolas—it sliced through Tauriel's pant line and cut the fabric off at her boot tops; exposing her slender yet curvy figure from behind in its entirety.

But— to Legolas and Tauriel's unexpected horror—the creature went one step further.

The orc gathered Tauriel's long, auburn hair in one fist. With one swipe of his sharp dagger, it sliced through her gorgeous locks, leaving it chopped off at the center of her neck. The brute had been rough with his swing and left a shallow slice across Tauriel's neck where her hair no longer hung.

"Unhand her!" Legolas demanded, struggling against the ropes that held his outstretched arms, "Deal with me, you deranged monster!"

"There's plenty to go around," the pale orc replied with a smirk. A flick of his bulbous head and the orc behind Legolas kicked his damaged ankle, sending waves of pain ripping through his body. But the prince did not cry. Instead, he bit down so hard on his inner cheek that he tasted blood. He pulled himself tightly against the stone, trying to allow the waves of pain to run their course and leave his body.

"There. Much better." The orc said with a pointy-toothed grin. Then, turning to the smiling fiends behind them he shouted, "Burn it!"

A cheer erupted from the party that had gathered behind them to watch, and a smaller orc wobbled up snickering; it grabbed the tail of long hair from the pale orcs grasp and walked over to the campfire.

Tauriel watched Legolas from her stone prison. Her hazel-green eyes glistened with tears, but they did not fall. Her gaze never left his; they silently held each other through their anguish. It was all they could do in the situation at hand.

And Legolas was grateful, for a small moment he was able to lose himself in her gaze; one moment of quiescence, one moment of escape for his already weary soul.

Suddenly, a searing fire ignited on his exposed flesh. Slamming him back to the grasslands, back to the trouble at hand.

A multi-strapped whip made contact with his back, right in the center. The contraption was made of thick strips of hide, but there was something added to the design. This was not the prince's first flogging, but it was already the most painful.

Another fiery lash whipped across his back, leaving a trail of a thousand needles in its wake.

The ends. There was something on the ends of the whip. Something that dug deeper than the straps, for he felt it dig into his flesh and brutally tear at his skin.

And then there was the laughter. The orcs were yipping and yowling hysterically. He heard a cry from his left and turned to see Gadrion slumped over as far as his ropes would allow, his body heaved with heavy, pained breaths; a thick stream of blood poured from his right eye which was no longer visible.

Another crack hit Gadrion and he cried out again. This time, Legolas saw the whip. It had at least five leather straps held apart and in place by a horizontal strap that went around the interior in a circle, the vertical 'tails' tied to it with leather notches. And just as he expected, there was something at the end of each tail. At the end of each leather strap hung a lead ball that resembled a enclosed bell.

Legolas got a better look at what he himself had felt before from the whip as it cracked back down upon Gadrion's bloodied back. Sticking out from the metal balls were shards of glass, bone and metal of varying sizes. When the whip made contact with the skin, the spikes protruding from the metal balls would carve deep, short rivets into the flesh.

In a moment of reprieve, Gadrion lifted his head to see his prince watching him in silent horror. Gadrion's right eye was gone, and his light golden hair was drenched and tangled with blood as it poured from the gaping wound on his face.

Another crack, and the monstrous whip struck again. Legolas's watched helplessly as the shards of glass and bone ripped slivers of flesh from his companions back and legs.

"Stop!" Legolas shouted. The skin on his arms and hands becoming raw as he struggled against the stone. "Leave him be!"

"Like Bacbuc said," the black orc behind him scolded, "There's plenty to go around. Wait your turn, scum."

The sound of the whip rang out from his right, and Legolas's blood raged as he turned his head to see Tauriel, holding her cry in with all her might, multiple, slender rivets were etched into her otherwise flawless skin, blood oozing forth.

And the creatures laughed. Cackled. Howled. Their hideous voices filled the prince's ears as the whips continued to rain down like hot daggers upon their bodies.

Thirty minutes passed, and Legolas feared they may not be able to withstand much more. They were all soaked in their own blood, the carvings running so deep in some places bone could be seen.

Legolas was cold. The blood soaking his body seemed to freeze in the night air, but the wounds inflicted on his back, buttocks and legs felt hot. The rough stone surface scraped and cut his chest and neck as he leaned on it for support, unable to hold himself any longer.

Tauriel was doing the same. The wounds on her body made Legolas sick with rage. Through the blood he saw small slivers of white where the whip had cut to her ribs, and he was terrified for her.

Gadrion was fairing no better. His back was completely raw, the skin from his neck down to his pant line had been torn off by the lashes and blood weeped from the wounds, falling in thick streams onto the ground. It looked as if he had been attacked by a warg, clawed and bitten until there was almost no flesh or muscle left to cover the bones.

Whatever the shrine of stones once stood for, it was now going to be a sacrificial altar if the orcs continued in their torture play.

Tauriel was close to blackness. Legolas called to her, trying to distract her from the pain and keep her from fading too far.

"Hold on." He whispered to her. "Hold on, Tauriel. Help with come."

Her beautiful, tired eyes spoke the truth the prince did not want to face. Her skin was paling quickly as blood seeped from her wounds and her body trembled uncontrollably.

They were all past the point of standing on their own, the ropes around the rock were the only things holding them from falling to the earth in a heap.

The waves of pain had ceased and it was now just one constant mind-breaking thrum, pulsing continuously through his body.

The whip struck again, clawing at his cheek. The prince felt his body lurch, and he wasn't sure how much more he could bear.

Another crack resounded from Legolas's left, but this time Gadrion did not answer. Legolas turned to see the valiant elf's head drooped low, as either unconsciousness or death had finally enveloped him.

"Hold." The black orc bellowed, "Looks like we have a winner, boys! Take him to the slaughtering stone. Lunch will be ready soon, then we move out."

For what energy he had left to muster, Legolas feebly fought his bindings to try and reach his fellow elf. He couldn't allow another of his men to suffer the same fate as Nordirion. He could never forgive himself.

But the prince's world was clouding, as if a fire had smogged the entire land, and his senses felt dull, as if they were covered by some invisible fabric. He felt his hands being untied once again, and before he could even try and stop himself, he fell to the grassy, blood-soaked floor.

Staring up at the starlit sky, he saw Tauriel leaning against the pillar of rock, her hazel-green eyes were distant, staring into another world. He wanted to call to her, to tell her to keep holding on, but he didn't have the strength.

A large orc cut her bindings, and she fell from his sight. The world moved slowly around him and he was lifted and tied somewhere else in the camp.

Through the fog, he heard a scream. The sound was too familiar. It started as a yell, then pitched high into a merciless shriek.

It ended quickly this time, but the sound continued to replay in his head; it echoed so clearly he began to doubt that it had actually stopped.

To his left he felt Tauriel quaking while she sobbed quietly; he tried to look at her but his body wouldn't allow it.

His golden hair fell on either side of his face, blocking his vision of the world around him. As he stared at the golden strands mired in varying colors of red, he tried to envision any way of escape. But all that flashed before his eyes were faces of hideous orc faces grinning. Fire. Cracking whips. Blood oozing from open wounds. And Nordirion's slack-jawed head staring at him from the rock.

The fog encroached further into Legolas's vision; he tried to shake it off, but it continued creeping further, the bloodied strands of hair falling away from him into darkness.

Gruff laughter met his ears, and the same sickening sound from the night before.

Slurp, crunch, mash.

A fire had been lit, the smell of smoke and cooked flesh met his nose, sending him over the edge and into blackness.


	4. Chapter 4

***Author Note: Hi there! I'm back with more. Please let me know what you think of the story so far =)**

 **Chapter 4**

Glimpses of the daylight flitted past the prince's heavy eyes. The day had been grey and clouded, and a slight breeze had settled upon the land, caressing his wounds with its airy hands as it blew past.

The orcs slept again, but Legolas didn't have the strength to remain awake this time. He passed in and out of consciousness throughout the day, unsure of what was reality and what was a dream.

It was the icy night's chill sinking its fangs into the prince's vulnerable flesh that woke him from his stupor. Agony erupted from every place in his body, threatening to send him right back into the abyss, but he clung onto consciousness with every ounce of willpower he had left.

He was no longer at the whipping stone, but he was being moved. Short, jarring movements wrenched and ripped every cut and broken bone in a steady, tortuous rhythm.

The orcs were on the move. As his vision cleared, Legolas realized he was tied to the back of a large orc with the gait of a chicken; and every quick, choppy step jerked and bounced him up, down, forwards and back.

His wounds heightened their protest of the hellish movement that was jolting them open again, and the black fog hovered at the corners of his vision.

But lucidity stayed with him long enough to find Tauriel. A few paces behind him to his right he found her. She was being carried on the back of the pale, sickly looking orc. Her wrists were tied together around the creatures neck and it held her legs like a parent does a small child.

To his relief, she was still unconscious; her sleeping face was mired with dirt, blood, and tears. The prince suspected his to look the same, as the black and purple bruising from the assault on his nose could be seen if he glanced down.

But she was currently not in any pain, and he hoped her mind had taken her to a place of beauty and comfort.

His mount stumbled on something in its path and tripped; fumbling to regain it's balance, it tightened it's hold on the prince's legs and it jarred him hard against it's back. With one off-step the creature lurched forward and then rammed it's head back, slamming it's brick-hard head against Legolas's temple.

That's all it took to send the prince spiraling back into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

An explosion erupted somewhere within the gaping darkness. Deep, resonating sounds echoed back to him like a bad dream. The pungent stench of charred sulfur dripped from the air, coating anything and everything it touched.

Beneath him, the earth trembled. Several more explosions went off one by one, their thick and heavy rumbles resonated through the darkness like an approaching thunderstorm.

An explosion struck close by and the fine spray of dirt fell upon his face and shattered rocks clinked all around him.

Loud, shrill shrieks pierced the stormy darkness. But this time they sounded like those of orcs—not elves.

The sound of arrows zipping through the air and thudding into their targets could be heard. Grunts and screams followed as he heard heavy things hitting the earth floor.

Then, the metallic sound of clashing swords met his ears; the familiar clink and skid of metal colliding was unmistakable.

"Prince Legolas, can you hear me?" A voice called out to him from the darkness.

"Don't worry about waking him. Unbind his wrists and get him out of here. Guard Captain Tauriel too."

"Yes, sir."

The voices were becoming clearer, as were the clamorous sounds of battle. He felt gentle hands grab beneath his arms, and another set grabbed both of his ankles—a searing pain burst from his left leg as a hand wrapped around it and began to pull.

Eyes slamming open, Legolas shouted "Stop!" His mouth was parched and his throat felt raw—but his message was received because he felt the hand quickly rescind.

As he swayed into consciousness, the sounds of fighting became loud in his ears, filling his head with confusion. Bleary eyes tracked dark figures fighting around him, but he was unable to make out any details.

A figure kneeled beside him, and as his vision continued to clear, he realized it was not an orc—but an elf. A Silvan elf that wore the crest of the Mirkwood guards.

Seeing the prince's eyes open and hearing his protests, the elf recoiled his hand from Legolas's left boot immediately, but still hovered with mouth slightly agape, uncertain what to say or do next.

Legolas felt the person behind him shift and lay him down. From the new perspective he could see the underside of a Sindarin elf's chin, white-blonde hair dangling close to his face.

"I'll carry him." The Sindarin stated to the Silvan, "Help me get him on my back."

The Silvan elf shut his jaw and nodded obediently. Legolas watched as the Sindarin walked around him and squatted over his outstretched legs.

"Grab his hands and lift him slowly to me," the Sindarin ordered to the other elf who quickly responded by taking Legolas's unbound hands and raising him forward off the ground.

A groan escaped Legolas's lips as the earth parted with his flayed back.

"I'm so sorry, your highness." The Silvan elf said as worry lines etched their way into his youthful face. But the elf did what was ordered of him and brought his prince up and onto the Sindarin's back; the pain and exhaustion of being moved again sent the prince back into the void.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

For what felt like an eternity, Legolas floated in the dark fluid depths of his mind.

As he drifted effortlessly, painlessly, Legolas began to hear the beautiful and familiar voices of his people singing far in the distance. The melodic words came to him and wrapped him in a warm, loving embrace; pulling him up from the dark entangling snares of his mind and back into the light.

Afraid it only a dream, the Prince of Mirkwood clung to the darkness. Tooth and nail he fought the pull—grasping and clawing to keep from surfacing, for in the light the only thing that awaited him was pain and suffering.

"Stop fighting." A deep, soothing voice echoed from above.

But he didn't believe the voice; he didn't trust it. He knew what waited for him out of the depths of his mind and he was still too tired to face it again.

"Wake up, Legolas." The voice spoke softly, "It's time to come back to us."

This time, it was as if he was being dragged out of the dark depths. The lamenting song grew louder as he drew closer to the surface, the darkness fading and a bright, shimmering light engulfed him.

The light was so bright that he had to blink several times to adjust. As he tried to focus and regain his surroundings, he was surprised to find that only a faint murmur of pain greeted him.

"There you are." The now familiar voice spoke from beside him.

Legolas turned his head and heard the soft crinkle of a pillow; he was no longer on stone or in the grasslands.

The voice that called to him belonged to his father; now sitting poised and dignified as usual beside him—one bejeweled hand resting upon his own.

In the background stood a female elf whose back was turned to them and long, auburn hair streamed down her back.

"Tauriel." Legolas whispered. His heart almost beating out of his chest.

But when the female turned around, he realized it was not his friend, but another.

"I'm sorry your highness," the female said with a sympathetic smile, "I am not Guard Captain Tauriel. My name is—"

"Cestë." Legolas finished her sentence, "I remember. You are one of the palace's head healers."

A fond smile graced Cestë's face, "That's right, my prince. I'm flattered you remember me." She glanced nervously over to Thranduil for a moment and then back to Legolas, "May I ask how you are feeling?"

"He will be fine." Thranduil interjected with a half-smile and flit of his wrist, "You have done well, Cestë. Now, please attend to your other duties and grant me and my son a moment alone."

"Yes, my lord." And with a quick bow Cestë disappeared past the solid wood doors that allowed exit from the room.

"Now," Thranduil said as he turned his blonde head to look at his son, "How _are_ you feeling?"

Blinking a few times, Legolas tried to sit up, all while feeling if there were any acute sources of pain that sprang up.

His dark brows drew together as he said, "Fine, I believe."

With the help of his father's guiding hand, Legolas managed to sit up in the bed in which he had been placed.

The room he was in was more than familiar; it was one of the many quaint and quiet private recovery rooms within the palace's hospital wing. Rooms in which he had been admitted many times over the centuries.

Long, twisting and intertwining branches were masterfully carved into the stone columns and walls, always reminding him of the forest outside the Halls. Four strategically placed lanterns were placed within the room to offer more than enough light, and casting upon the the walls and floors a warm, soothing glow.

The last time he had been admitted to the palace infirmary was after he had broken his arm jumping from a high tree onto two unsuspecting Giant Spiders. He and Tauriel had dared each—

"Where is Tauriel?" Legolas blurted out as he suddenly realized that Tauriel was not in the room with him. Worried that something had gone wrong while he had been unconscious, the prince pushed himself to the side of the bed to stand. That's when he realized there was something big and bulky attached to his left ankle beneath the bed sheets.

"Legolas," his father softly scolded while gently pushing his son back from the edge of the bed, "You must rest. Cestë and the other healers did well, but you have still not fully recovered." Glancing towards his son's left leg, "I'm sure you realize by now that your leg has been bandaged. The bones were so finely shattered that Cestë made that cast for you to ensure everything heals correctly. She said you will only need to wear it a day or two."

"But what of Tauriel?" Legolas stared at his father's stoic face, trying to catch any slip his king may give.

"Tauriel has yet to awaken." The elf-king stated dryly as he leaned back in his chair, satisfied that his son was not going to try and leap out of bed again.

"What do you mean she hasn't awoken?" Legolas said with reproach. Exhaustion was creeping in on him again; his muscles were weak, protesting the mere movement of sitting up as too much work.

A slow, throbbing pulse had sprouted deep within his head and pressed painfully at the backs of his eyes. But he needed to see Tauriel—for all that she had been through he needed to make sure she was alright.

"It means just that." Thranduil's voice was laced with irritation as he sat back and steepled is hands, "You were both unconscious when you were rescued two nights back, and unlike you she has yet to awaken."

"I need to see her." Legolas replied sternly.

"There is no point. She will not hear you—she is in a deep sleep." Seeing the worry etched on his son's weary face, Thranduil lowered his head, "But, I promise you the healers are doing everything they can for her."

Legolas bowed his aching head and massaged his temples, trying to piece together the last few days. But all he saw were nonsensical images quickly flitting past like the pages of a story book.

Then, a page paused. The picture of a Nordirion's pale and blue severed head with it's cold, glazed eyes and slack-jawed silent scream stared at him from it's place on the rock.

Legolas shook the image away as fast as he could. He expected _that_ image to continue to haunt him for a long time.

"What happened?" He finally asked, looking to his father.

The elf-king's blue eyes glanced down to the floor and then back to his son— cool and calculating as usual, "After finding what was left of your party outside of our borders, it was deduced that four members including you and Tauriel had been captured." Thranduil slowly blinked, "Suspecting you to be injured—since you did not return on your own—I sent a larger force to recover you and the other survivors."

Legolas inwardly flinched at the words _other survivors_.

Thranduil shifted in his seat and let out a soft sigh, "They were able to catch up to the orcs as dawn approached. They found you and Tauriel tied to a tree—both unconscious." Thranduil paused briefly and blinked, raising his chin and tilting his head slightly, "At least that is what the report said."

"I see." Legolas replied somberly, "I don't remember that part."

"As is to be expected." Thranduil replied curtly. Rising from his seat, the elf-king placed his hands behind his back and sauntered over to the one window in the room that gave view into one of the hospital's many gardens.

Turning back to his son, the elf-king continued, "But tell me this, Legolas. How does a highly skilled prince of elves fall prey to such a pathetic group of orcs?"

Legolas's jaw clenched at the sugar-coated blame. But his father's accusation wasn't wrong. He had been foolish. Over-confident.

The prince turned away from his father's accusing gaze, staring instead at a glass jar and bottle of medicine the healers had left by his bedside.

"The orcs had buried explosives. We were caught off guard."

"Yes." Thranduil replied, "So I've heard. But what I don't understand is how you managed to be caught off guard. Were you not trained to avoid and recover from such primitive warfare?"

Legolas felt his face growing hot, "I assure you, all standard, preliminary actions were performed. We surveyed the entire area and checked for traps. The orcs seemed completely unaware of our presence." Legolas rubbed his mouth with his hand, "Tauriel and I did not see any reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary." He looked to his father for any sign of understanding.

"Well, it seems you should have." Thranduil said disapprovingly as he turned back to the window for one more glance at the garden. He then made his way back to his son's side, "But, it is done with. There will be a dinner tomorrow night as members of the White Council will be visiting to discuss some—" his lips tightened and he looked away "—growing concerns. I would like you to attend if you are feeling well enough."

Legolas nodded but remained silent.

"Good." Thranduil said of his sons agreement, "Then, I shall leave you for now. Get some rest." As the blonde haired king opened the large door, he turned back to his son, "Oh, and Legolas... do not try and seek out Tauriel today. I have positioned guards outside your doors with explicit orders that you stay here and rest. I will bring you news if anything changes."

The wooden door shut with an airy thud and the prince was left alone to himself.


	7. Chapter 7

***Author Note*: Hello everyone! Sorry for the delayed update, I wanted to have a few chapters written for you all at once, so here they are! Remember to please review! I love reading your thoughts on the story so far, and if you have anything you might want to see happen later on in the story, let me know, I'll see if I can incorporate =) . Reviews also inspire me to write and keep going 3 .**

 **Chapter 7**

The soft echo of quick and unsettled footsteps met the elf-king's ears as he sifted through the large stack of books he had brought to his office from the Hall's library.

"Come in." Thranduil said as soon as the footsteps stopped.

The large wooden door creaked open slowly, and Cestë the healer stepped through the doorway.

Thranduil scanned the healer up and down—rogue strands of auburn hair sprung out in all directions, tickling her forehead and cheekbones as the rest lay in a messily tied ponytail. Hazel eyes glistened with unshed tears and a faint shade of dark purple settled beneath her bottom lashes.

The elf-king briefly glanced back down to the text he'd been reading; mentally saving he place at the middle paragraph. He closed the large leather-bound book with a soft thud and gave his subordinate his full attention.

Cestë's stood with feet close together as she bowed the top half of her body. Her normally cool and confident voice strained to remain collected, "Your majesty, I have grave news of Guard Captain Tauriel."

Thranduil's pupils dilated slightly as a look of concern flashed across his features; only to disappear again behind the mask.

Heeled leather boots tapped against the stone floor as he walked out from behind his desk. Leisurely he dragged a long and slender finger over the hills of books and loose pages that riddled the ancient desk.

The elf-king closed the gap between them, "What news do you bring?" he said, watching the she-elf's movements closely.

Straightening from her bow, Cestë's reply quavered with emotion, "With heavy heart I must report that Guard Captain Tauriel has—has passed. She died just past half an hour ago"

A frown pulled momentarily at the elf-king's mouth. Turning from Cestë he strode over to where a crystal glass and pitcher with water awaited him. Pouring himself a drink, he remained facing the wall of books in front of him, "How did this happen?" He raised the glass of water to his lips and took a sip. Then turned and looked over his shoulder to Cestë, "It was just yesterday that you reported her stable."

"And she was, your majesty." Cestë's body stiffened and her glistening eyes remained locked on the stone floor before her king, "But the poison—the poison from the shrapnel embedded in her side went too deep. We couldn't cleanse it all." Her face scrunched together as she continued, "It was in every muscle fiber and tendon, it had leached into her bones. We thought we had cleansed it all, but it seems we could not get it out of her bones…" Cestë's voice trailed off as her eyes seemed to replay the the scenes from hours before in front of her again. Snapping back, she regained her composure, "If maybe we had gotten to her sooner," the healer's eyes watered again and she averted her gaze to the corner of the room, "but she was too weak. She just wasn't able to fight it, your majesty."

Thranduil did not reply. Instead, he drained his glass and refilled it. The elf-king began to slowly move the glass in a circular motion so that the water began to move in a whirlpool type manner. He stared into the spiraling liquid, his head tilting slightly as he watched—lost deep in thought.

The sounds of the Hall's came to life in the silence—soft creaks and groans of stone and wood and the faint droning howls of the forest's autumn winds outside filled the air.

The sweet, waxy smell of beeswax from the lit and melting candles mixed with the deep, earthy aroma of all the old books created a warm and pleasant atmosphere despite the subject matter being discussed.

Inhaling deeply, Thranduil finally broke the silence, "Prepare the body for burial tomorrow night. I have guests this evening that cannot be delayed."

Cestë startled slightly in her stead but obediently replied, "Yes, my lord." She then straightened back up and cupped her hands in the front of her dress, "Would you like me to give the news to his highness Prince Legolas?"

"No." Thranduil replied sharply, "I will bring him the ill news. Please do not inform anyone outside the infirmary of this until I have spoken to him." Turning to look over his shoulder, "Now, is there anything else?"

Cestë shook her head, "No, my lord."

"Then you may leave." Thranduil turned back to the wall books.

The door closed quietly behind him with a soft thud. The air in the room shifted, then equalized, and the elf-king was once again, alone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The morning hours had crawled forward at an achingly slow pace. Books had been brought to discourage his boredom, but the idleness and calm that had been requested of him had already begun to drive the heir of the Woodland Realm mad.

The night before, Legolas had argued with an apprentice healer that he could eat in the dining hall as normal, but all pleas for normalcy fell on deaf ears and he was recited the Sage Healers instructions to stay in bed and off his leg as much as possible.

Once the dark of night had befallen the Halls, the prince had hobbled out of bed and —with the help of some skillfully crafted crutches— tried to excuse himself from the prison of his room by way of a false need of a midnight snack.

Unfortunately, the guards had seen right through his ruse. That time his father's directives were recounted back to him word-for-word as he was escorted back to his room.

Legolas had questioned the guards of Tauriel's state— knowing word spread throughout the palace staff like wildfire— in hopes of some positive news. But alas, both guardsmen but shook their heads sympathetically as they closed the door on their prince.

With the morning light came less pain. Rising from his bed, Legolas massaged his bleary eyes with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. Once more awake, he scanned the small room for any changes that may have occurred while he had slept.

New incenses had been lit, their soft white smoke twirled upward, dancing in the morning light. The smoking sticks were customary in the healing ward, for they had the power to heal the body and mind.

Lifting himself to the edge of the bed, the prince placed his feet on the soft, hand woven rug beneath him. The bandages wrapped around his torso and legs were loose from sleep, and he knew the healers would soon be in to clean and re-wrap him. Though wishing he would be allowed to care for himself, the sharp twinges of pain that met him as he rose from the bed spoke otherwise.

The creak of the door announced the entrance of two people: the head healer Cestë and an unknown silvan elf carrying a tray of food and drink for the prince's morning meal.

Pleasantries were exchanged and then Legolas did not dally in declaring himself able to travel to the dining hall and eat there instead of them bringing him his meal.

Cestë smiled and rolled her eyes as she instructed the other elf to place the tray on the side table next to the prince's bed.

"I'm sorry, my lord, but I have explicit orders to keep you in this room to rest as much as possible. And if when you must walk, please use _these_." She said with a chiding tone as she handed the standing prince the pair of crutches he had forgone on his way to the bathroom.

A smile parted Legolas's lips as he took the crutches from her and continued his way to the bathroom.

"Would you like me to assist you, your highness?" the Silvan elf asked Legolas as he began to close the door to the bathroom.

"Huh?" Legolas looked at the brown-haired male with a confused expression.

"I'd be happy to assist you." the Silvan elf said with a pleasant smile.

"Uh…" Legolas felt his cheeks going hot for what he thought the male elf to be asking, "I am able to do this on my own, thank you."

"Are you sure? It can be rather difficult in your current state."

"What—"

"He means to redress your wounds, your highness," Cestë intervened between the awkward conversation.

"Oh, I see." Legolas said with an exhale of relief.

Cestë chuckled and looked to her assistant who still seemed confused, "His highness is using the restroom for its intended purpose, Amondaer. You can help him once he's finished."

"Oh—OH!" Realization donned on Amondaer's face and turning back to the prince, his cheeks grew flush with embarrassment. "A million pardons, my lord! I was not thinking! Please continue."

Slightly mortified to be even discussing the subject, Legolas just nodded his head and quickly shut the door.

Afterwards, Legolas made his way back to the bed where Amondaer had prepared a stack of clean, white bandages and Cestë stood at the table by the wall working on the herbal ointments.

Legolas eased himself back onto the bed and placed the crutches at his feet.

"Let us work on the top half first, shall we?" Amondaer said.

Legolas nodded his head and lifted his nightshirt—Amondaer helped him so that he did not jostle the wounds on his back too much.

"You are new." Legolas said as he watched the brown haired male prepare a warm bowl with an array of herbs floating on its surface, "When did you come to _Eryn Lasgalen_ (the Wood of Greenleaves)?"

"Two weeks ago, my lord. I am from Lórien." Though his amber eyes still remained fixed on the bowl of water, Legolas saw a frown pull at the edges of his mouth, "My mother died when I was young, and my father and brother were all I had until two months ago when they were killed by something unknown during a routine scouting mission." Amondaer brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and glanced up at the prince, "So, I decided to leave for a new home, a new life. Lord Celeborn in his great kindness spoke with King Thranduil on my behalf and gained me employment as an apprentice healer within this infirmary." Turning his eye back to the bowl of water, he dipped a clean cloth into it and then looked at Legolas with a warm smile, "It is my honor to serve you, your highness."

Cringing inwardly at the constant use of formal titles and the overabundance of gratefulness, Legolas nodded his head and gave a small smile.

With each treatment the pain from his flayed flesh lessened. The layers of skin that had been removed during the flogging were growing back at a steady pace from the inside out. The deep bruises left by the blows were surfacing and changing color every day. The used bandages were less bloody each time as well, for the bed rest and restricted movement kept him from tearing open the healing skin as had happened during the orc's tortuous trek across the grasslands.

Skilled yet tentative fingers graced his back, inspecting the various lash wounds for possible infection. Amondaer's touch sent a cool, tingling sensation into the first few layers of hurt skin, relieving almost all the soreness the prince had quietly been experiencing.

"Your wounds are healing well, my lord." Amondaer said with the same gentle smile as before, "I just need to ask for Cestë's opinion on one thing."

The healer stood up and walked over to Cestë who had been grinding and mashing various herbs together in silence.

Legolas cupped his chin in his hand and leaned on his knee as he watched the two healers talk quietly and then approached.

"How are you feeling, your highness?" Cestë asked with a weary smile.

Looking at Cestë more closely than before, Legolas grew concerned because he clearly felt a deep sadness emanating from within her that hadn't been there the day before.

Legolas opened his mouth to ask what ailed her, but Amondaer grabbed her attention first and pointed her to Legolas's back.

"This one. I wasn't sure if it needed a stronger ointment then the others."

A sharp, stabbing pain caught Legolas off guard and he quickly stifled a cry.

Hearing the sudden inhale and seeing the full-body flinch, Cestë craned around from behind him and asked, "Did that hurt?"

Clamping his jaw shut to maintain his calm and stoic demeanor, Legolas just closed his eyes and nodded his head.

Falling back to her previous post, Cestë said, "Hmm. Okay. Just to be safe, dress this with _athelas_ , please. The others use the _elanor_ and _niphredil_ mixture for the time being."

Legolas knew what came after the top half of his body was cleaned and bandaged, and he did not look forward to it.

As Amondaer stood and gathered the crutches to help Legolas into the bathroom, the prince asked him, "What of Dolthedir?"

Dolthedir had been the male healer who had so far helped dress and bandage the regions below Legolas's belt. Though not ashamed in anyway, Legolas was very private and preferred a very select few to know him so intimately.

Amondaer averted his eyes quickly from the prince's questioning gaze, "Dolthedir has been placed on other duties this morning, my lord. He is sorry he cannot be here to assist you."

Feeling that answer suspicious, Legolas glanced over to Cestë for further explanation, only to be met with a sympathetic head nod.

Stepping over the threshold into the large bathroom, Legolas walked straight ahead to the two silver sinks that set within a large countertop inlaid with magnificently colored stones. Deep forest greens and cobalt blues glimmered in the warm lantern light. A large mirror hung in front of him framed with silver—heated and hammered to look like the twisting and twirling branches of the forest around the Hall's. At the end of some of these metallic branches were green glass leaves, their craftsmanship so fine they appeared real.

Next to the stone countertop lay the large bath carved from the cave walls. From the large stone basin crawled the same intricately carved branches so that it almost seemed that a tree grew around the tub.

Past the bath on the other side of the stone carving sat the private commode, across from it stood an open air shower—for when injuries were not permitting of soaking.

Back towards the entry door from the shower grew a long stone bench.

Above the bench on the wall were several square shelves of various sizes for holding patients belongings and healers needed items while assisting. Currently, three snow-white towels were folded up on in one shelf, while a bowl with smoking herbs burned in one higher up.

"Here you go, your highness." Amondaer said as he handed Legolas one of the white towels and closed the door behind them.

Stepping up to the counter, Legolas examined himself in the mirror. His usually strong and defined features appeared drawn and ashen. Beneath both eyes and across the bridge of his nose a yellowish brown bruise spread; a reminder of the gift the orc's elbow had bestowed upon him.

Leaning closer, Legolas pressed the yellow bruise lightly to feel how deep it still went; only a faint twinge of pain beneath the skin's surface met his touch. The bruise went white as his index finger pressed down, and when he lifted the pressure the yellowish brown came flooding back instantly.

Putrid yellow eyes with pinhead pupils surrounded by black, flaky skin overtook the prince's field of vision. The horrid stench of muck and rotting flesh filled his lungs and he felt the earth shift beneath him. He felt like the air had been sucked out of the room, and his lungs were left frozen around the creature's atrocious breath.

His hands smacked down against the smooth, cold stones of the countertop, anchoring him him to the present. The orc's face faded from his vision and the prince coughed as the cold, clean air refilled his hesitant lungs.

Staring straight ahead, he found only himself in the mirror —with Amondaer standing warily behind him with knees bent and arms out ready to catch the prince should he have fallen.

Glancing behind him and gesturing with a low hand, Legolas reassured his healer that he was fine.

Turning back to the mirror, Legolas found his reflection unsettling. The elf staring back at him looked sick and tired—more so than he felt. Though the reflection's face showed no emotion, the eyes told the truth. Deep and silent anguish emanated from the blue eyes that stared back at him and he did not like it one bit.

The warrior in him knew that look. He seen it in elves and men alike when they had experienced too much and the cruelties of life weighed too heavily upon their psyches.

The prince closed his eyes and shook his head to rid himself of the reflection's unspoken truth. With a slight pressure, he stroked his brows outward with his thumb and index finger in an attempt to ease the budding headache that had started to pound at the walls of his skull again— subsequently spurring sharp, lightning bolts of pain to the backs of his eyes.

"Are you alright, my lord?" Amondaer asked cautiously from behind the prince.

"Yes. Just a headache." Legolas said shortly, avoiding any eye contact with his healer.

Bending down carefully, Legolas slid the nightgown pants down from his waist and thighs, allowing the soft fabric to crumple around his ankles.

Leaning most of his weight against the countertop, Legolas covered his manhood by holding the white towel in front of him.

"I will work my way down," Amondaer said while placing a large bowl of warm water on the floor next to Legolas's casted foot, "If there is an increase of pain anywhere, please let me know."

Legolas nodded his head but said nothing. He just wanted this part to be over.

As Amondaer worked his way quickly but carefully down the prince's backside, Legolas's mind drifted to Tauriel and how she fared. Images of her bruised and bloodied face made his heart ache, but he hoped her now free of any pain; that the healers had been able to numb it all from her battered and abused body.

The flash of her turning to him with her hair chopped short and bouncing around her ears and jawline as silent tears ran down her face brought him to the edge of physical sickness. How he had wanted to be the one to kill the orcs who had done that to her; to watch them gurgle and choke on their own blood as they slowly drowned in their own bodies.

But at least they were dead, he told himself with a sigh. They were all dead, wounds will heal, and hair grows back. He continued to silently repeat those words in hopes of eventually believing them.

Once they were both healed, Legolas would give Tauriel as many days off from the Guard for recuperation as she wanted. He would give her the funds to go to Imladris or Lorien or wherever she chose to convalesce. If she wanted a companion to join her for her time off, he would happily offer his friendship.

Over the centuries, Legolas and Tauriel had become known for their close friendship throughout the Hall's, but he had always made sure to hide his fonder affections for her.

There were several reasons why pursuing a romantic relationship with the Captain of his Guard would be problematic; the first, most obvious being that he descended from Sindar lineage while she that of Silvan.

Legolas himself had no qualms with the mixing of races or even species—excluding dwarves, of course. But he knew his father and the other groups within Mirkwood's borders would disapprove of the union immensely and he feared how Tauriel would handle the constant scrutiny and disapproval.

But then again, if she had ever come to him and confessed her longing for him, he would have jumped to her side without hesitation.

But alas, Tauriel had never confessed such feelings for him, or for anyone but that dwarf. A twinge of embarrassment flared within him for losing her affections to a dwarf.

Pushing his pride aside, Legolas had never wished for Tauriel to suffer the loss that she did when the dwarf died on that mountain. Even if he hated the dwarf, he loved Tauriel and wanted her to be happy, whether it be with him or another.

Tauriel never did discuss the dwarf after that fateful day. It seemed she just bottled up her grief and buried it deep within her—though Legolas knew the wound in her heart remained open and weeping, he never did know the right words to help heal it.

Before the dwarf, Legolas had been too hopeful. He had read their friendship in a light of naivety. But now he understood that she only ever cared for him as a friend, and though that admittance made his heart ache, he gladly took being her friend over nothing at all.

A sudden knock on the bathroom door brought Legolas back from his thoughts. Amondaer's movements down his right leg stopped and the healer looked at the door then to Legolas for orders.

"Legolas?" His father's voice resounded from behind the solid wood door.

"Yes, Adar?" Legolas replied without moving from his position.

"How are you feeling?"

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, Legolas replied, "Fine."

"Good. Then you will join us for dinner tonight. Members of the White Council will be in attendance and I would like you there to discuss your recent encounters with the orcs."

"Understood." Legolas said, bowing his head and staring at his fingers against the blue and green stones of the counter.

Then, quickly raising his head he said, "How does Tauriel fair? I would like to see her before this evening's guests arrive."

At first, nothing but silence came from behind the door, but Legolas knew his father still stood there because he could hear his quiet and steady breathing.

"That won't be possible." Thranduil said curtly

Anger flashed through Legolas and without thinking, he jerked up his trousers and spun around to the door—barely missing Amondaer, who yelped and threw himself out of the way before being trampled— and swung it open with more strength than he should have exerted.

"What do you mean I _still_ cannot see her?" Legolas snapped at his father standing before him. "I do not care if she still sleeps, I have to see her."

Remaining cool and calculating, Thranduil's blue eyes locked onto those of his angered son. "That is not your decision to make," Thranduil said in a low, commanding tone, "Or would you put Tauriel's health at risk for your own selfish wants?"

That thought deflated Legolas instantly and he dropped his gaze, "Of course not." Sliding his gaze back up to his father, Legolas asked, "But why is it that I cannot see her? I fear something is amiss. I do not see how my presence by her bedside would do any harm; I can offer her my strength to fight what ails her."

"There is nothing more that can be done for her." Thranduil said, "It is up to her to now, whether she wakes or not."

The words hit him like a bucket of ice water, "So she is failing." Legolas's tone became caustic, "I need to see her." He tried to shove past his father and grab the crutches on the far wall but Thranduil easily pushed him— careful not to further his injuries— back into the bathroom doorway.

"She is neither failing nor improving," his father said with a strict-calm, " _you_ on the other hand are improving, and I need you to continue to do so. Seeing Tauriel in her current state will only stress and drain your reserves and keep you both from recovering."

"Yet you would have me apprise the White Council this evening without hesitation?" Legolas growled.

"I believe you to be strong enough to sit and discuss what you witnessed during your exploits, yes." Thranduil replied unsympathetically. "Now, I am done discussing this with you." The elf-king turned and headed back towards the entrance of the room, "I will see you at this evening's meal."

As usual, Thranduil left the air thick with silent tension between them.

Legolas's headache intensified to an excruciating level as his blood raged through his body and his heartbeat rhythmically slammed into his chest in time with the pounding in his skull. The veins just below the surface of his skin jumped up and down with the increased pulse. The tips of his pointed ears were hot and his hands were white from gripping the wooden doorway with so much force.

Cestë timidly walked over to where Legolas stood in the bathroom doorway silently fuming, and handed him a steaming hot cup.

"Here," she said presenting the white ceramic cup to him, "Drink this, it will calm you."

Shaking his head, Legolas rubbed his forehead in an attempt to ease the now rampaging migraine. "I do not need to calm down. I _need_ to see Tauriel."

Cestë's eyes softened and her slender auburn brows drew down and together slightly, "My sincerest apologies, your highness."

Legolas's head snapped up and his gaze locked on to the healer, "What do you mean?" He asked suspiciously.

Cestë's muscles tensed and her hazel eyes widened as she quickly shook her head, "Nothing, your highness. Nothing besides that I am sorry you are not allowed to see Guard Captain Tauriel as you so desperately desire."

"Then why do you not tell the King that I can see her?" Legolas accused, "You are a head healer, are you not? It is within your power to do so."

Cestë's body drooped and she dropped her head, "I am sorry, your highness. I cannot do that."

"Why not?" Legolas demanded.

Lifting her head, her eyes silently pleading for forgiveness, "It is beyond my station, your highness."

"Then who must I speak to to gain admittance?" the prince questioned.

Shaking her auburn head again, "Guard Captain Tauriel needs complete isolation if she has any chance to—" Cestë's voice choked up "—to heal, your highness. No one but Sage Master's Maethanar and Limiel are allowed to see her."

Realizing his anger and frustration misdirected upon an innocent, Legolas rescinded his interrogation and averted his gaze.

Besides, the hammering in his head had yet to cease, and it's perpetual insistence had him enduring increasing waves of nausea.

"Please, your highness," Cestë said holding up the white cup again, "This will make you feel better and allow you to rest. Please drink it."

This time, the prince obliged, "Place it beside the bed please, Cestë" he said softly as he gestured for the crutches on the other side of the room.

From behind him, Amondaer appeared by his side and offered himself as the prince's crutch. Draping an arm over the brown haired elf, Legolas hobbled back over to his bed where the white cup now waited for him.

Amondaer helped the weary prince back into bed and handed him the cup. The apprentice healer then bowed his goodbye before turning to exit behind Cestë.

Legolas took a sip of the warm liquid as he watched them leave. The concoction tasted strongly of fennel, with an undertone of valerian and hint of ginger and lavender.

Within minutes he felt the tea's effects. A relaxing warmth spread from his core out to his extremities and the throbbing in his skull eased considerably.

Resting his head upon his pillow, Legolas stared up at the wooden beams that ran lengthwise across the stone ceiling. He took one large breath in and then back out, emptying his lungs and allowing his muscles to sink into the padded mattress beneath him.

Centering himself, Legolas closed his eyes and focused his energy on seeing Tauriel. Through the sheer veil he traveled, searching for her through the walls, halls and rooms of the infirmary to where he found her lying alone in her own recovery room.

Never fully developing this form of mental skill, the window from which Legolas could see Tauriel appeared rough throughout and fuzzy around the edges, but it was enough. He could see his friend lying on a bed with light gold sheets beneath her. The room sat completely dark except for a soft stream of light coming in from a skylight above her.

Replacing the bruises and blood, Tauriel's beautiful face bore an unsettling paleness that Legolas did not like. Long, dark lashes rested, but he did not see any fluttering of eye movement beneath her heavy lids.

Moving down, he saw her pale hands rested on her stomach. An item lay beneath her cupped hands but he couldn't see it fully to make it out.

As Legolas continued to take in Tauriel and her surroundings, a dread began to bloom inside his stomach and spread to his heart and lungs. No lanterns or incense burned in the cold, dark room. No bright colored flowers rested on her bedside nor fresh folded towels for her next sponge bath.

Keeping his eyes closed, Legolas's pushed himself to concentrate and create a clearer image. Examining her face again, he could not see the rose-colored blush that normally graced her high cheekbones, and the soft pink of her lips now appeared a dim purple.

Legolas's throat began to tighten as his heartbeat quickened. His mind spun as he felt the truth within him. The notion so horrid he did not even want to put it into thought.

With his mind spinning, he lost his center and fell back into his own body. The pit of understanding still stirred in his stomach and he knew he had to go to Tauriel immediately.

Legolas tried to open his eyes, but they remained closed and as heavy as stone. He attempted to lift his right arm to no avail. It felt as if he lay beneath a mountain of sand. Focusing all his strength, he told his body to sit up, but he could not move an inch.

And his thoughts were—were shorting out. Try as he may, he couldn't hold onto them; they kept slipping away from him like sand between his hands.

But he needed to wake up, he needed to move. He needed—he needed to see her—Tauriel. She—she was in trouble. He would not lose another. His mistake could not be her—her—undoing. Not her. Not Tauriel. But that look, that feeling— he knew it, she was—she was—.

An ash of incense fell softly upon the bedside table next to the empty white tea cup. The room lay still and silent except for the low, steady breathing of the sleeping prince.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

That afternoon the Hall's were abuzz with chatter and excitement from the anticipation of the arrival of the prestigious guests. The elves of the Woodland Realm did not get many from outside their borders, so the White Council's arrival sparked fireworks within the secluded population that could be felt everywhere.

The dining hall twinkled and shined with the light of hundreds of glowing lanterns and candles atop every surface within the magnificent chamber.

Autumn colors comprised of oranges, browns, golds and yellows burst forth from the decorations adorning tables and walls, figuratively pushing to the back of all their minds the harsh winter that already crouched at their doorstep.

Legolas had been woken a few hours before by Amondaer and handed a shimmering silver tunic to wear to the meeting disguised as a dinner.

Not all members of the White Council had been able to make it as originally planned; Saruman the White had been called away to another important matter suddenly and had sent his regards upon the wings of a raven, and Lady Galadriel had sent Celeborn in her stead. Gandalf the Grey had come alone, while Elrond had brought his two sons Elladan and Elrohir.

As Legolas walked into the decorated hall, he saw Gandalf already sitting at the long table laughing and chatting with Lord Celeborn while smoking his long pipe.

Palace staff darted here and there, setting places at the table, filling water, mead, and wine glasses, sorting silverware and other last minute details.

The prince shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all; for he knew that their guests would have been fine with something more informal and intimate. But leave it to his father to show off what little was left of his dwindling power and wealth.

"Legolas," a voice said from his right.

Legolas turned to see Elrond approaching him with a small flicker of a smile.

"Master Elrond." Legolas said with a returned smile as the two locked forearms.

"I see you are still getting yourself into trouble as always." Elrond said wryly as he glanced at Legolas's crutches and casted foot that peeked from underneath his robe.

"If only we had healers as skilled as yourself, I would not still be showing off my troubles." Legolas replied with a smirk.

Face brightening from the compliment, "I would be happy to offer my services. I will take a look at it after dinner."

"That would be wonderful." Legolas said as he moved towards his place at the large table across from Gandalf and Celeborn.

Once seated, Legolas placed the crutches down next to his chair, then reached for his wine glass and took a sip.

A dry, tart taste flooded his taste buds and he felt the tension in his jaw soften. Closing his eyes for a moment, he relished the dark, earthy taste of blackberry that lingered on his tongue. The thought of his father ordering for his best wine to be served for this occasion had Legolas chuckling to himself. Thranduil was shameless in his ostentatiousness.

"Legolas Greenleaf," he heard a new voice say, "long has it been since last we met. How are you my boy?"

Opening his eyes, the smiling grey-blue eyes of his wizard friend Gandalf greeted him. The old man sat across from him with a wine glass in one hand and his pipe in the other.

Bowing his head, Legolas replied, "I am doing well, Mithrandir. I am glad you were able to attend this evening's meal."

Leaning back in his chair, Gandalf's expression became serious, "I never miss the opportunity for a good meal and drink. Some of my most fondest memories are of those involving elven feasts and drinking elven-made wine." the old man said with a wink.

Legolas smiled and took another sip from his wine glass. Canvassing the room, the prince donned a pleasant expression for all to see, but inside he felt uneasy.

In the massive chamber, he felt very exposed. He had never realized how many dark corners and blind spots the dining hall had; not to mention entrances. There were at least seven different entrances, and not all of them were within view of where he sat.

And the noise. The noise in the room doubled because of the echo created by the massive dome above them, making all background noise near impossible to hear.

Legolas took another sip of his wine and tried to relax. The nervous energy growing inside of him had him bouncing his good leg up and down beneath the table. The uncertainty of the security around him had him mentally double checking the room for possible weapons to use since he came unarmed.

Taking a deep breath, Legolas closed his eyes and repeated reassuring phrases in his head, trying to ease the increasing need to flee. But even with keeping the dark and paranoid thoughts subdued, the panic continued to grow in his chest.

Sucking in another deep breath, Legolas grabbed his wine glass and emptied it; then slammed the glass down on the table harder than he meant to.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Gandalf watching him. Legolas pretended not to notice, while easing the muscles in his face for a more pleasant facade. The old wizard held his gaze for a few moments longer, then turned back to continue his conversation with Celeborn and Elrond.

Just as Legolas prepared to request more wine, blackness closed in upon him as hands covered his eyes.

He found himself frozen and unable to pry the warm hands off of him. Every muscle in his body including his lungs spasmed; his mouth went dry and a sheen of sweat leapt upon his neck and hands.

Time slowed down and his thoughts struggled as if swimming through black tar. His stunted thoughts made it entirely too difficult to order his body to move, and that realization lead to the nervousness within him to mutate into panic.

Then the sounds of laughter behind him met his ears.

The sounds and darkness threw him back to the grasslands and back on the whipping stone with the orcs laughing behind him. Their gleeful shrieks and deep bellows filled his head and his stomach tied in knots. He felt the rope bindings burning his wrists and a hand slammed down on his shoulder.

A hand. Not a whip.

The hand held it's spot for a moment then shook back-and-forth gently. The laughter stopped and the grasslands faded; his vision regained as the hands slid away.

"Legolas!" a cheerful voice called out from behind him as another presence sat down to his left, "How are you doing, old friend? It has been a long time!"

The paralysis still rescinding, Legolas shifted only his gaze to the left. To his relief, a familiar face sat down next to him—Elladan son of Elrond, grinning ear-to-ear.

Then to his right he felt the hand shake his shoulder again and he found himself able to turn his head to see Elrohir the other son of Elrond beside him.

The hands that had surprised him belonged to Elrohir in nothing more than a practical joke the two brothers played on unsuspecting targets. Legolas had just been caught off guard this time, nothing more.

"Legolas?" he heard Elrohir question.

Blinking several times, Legolas found his words, "Yes?"

"Are you alright?" Elladan asked from his other side.

Legolas turned to the other twin and put on his smile, "Of course. I was just thinking of how I was to get you two back for your trickery."

Elladan's grin widened even more, "I see," glancing to his brother, "then we will be on guard for our stay in King Thranduil's Halls!"

"As will I." Legolas said with a laugh as he grabbed his refilled glass of wine and took a sip.

At that moment the Halls fell silent as Thranduil appeared from behind the large double doors of the main entrance of the dining hall. Dressed in a dark silver and green robe, the elf-king strode into the hall with head held high—wearing his crown of intricate branches— looking very much like his favorite Elven Elk.

The guests all stood for King Thranduil as he approached the table—Legolas fumbled slightly in his rise and both twins dove in to assist him. With a raising of one hand he politely declined their help and with an awkward push upwards stood on his own against the table.

"Thank you all for joining us." Thranduil said, gesturing to both sides of the table before him, "Please, take a seat and let us begin."

Legolas let out a sigh at having to sit down again and move the chair back to the comfortable place he already had it a few seconds ago.

Elrohir chuckled and Elladan made a grand gesture of his own ability to swiftly sit and adjust himself back into place; Legolas held his head high and pretended to ignore them, a hint of a smile letting them know he too found himself pathetically amusing.

As everyone sat, the elf-king's eyes wandered to the palace staff standing at attention in the far side of the hall and ordered, "Bring the meal."

Legolas watched as the wait staff bowed in obedience and then scurried off like mice avoiding a flood.

"Now then," Thranduil said sitting down at the head of the long table and raising his wine glass, "I would like to propose a toast. To all those who walk in the light and fight the dark forces that teem within the depths of Middle Earth."

Everyone raised their glasses and drank to the elf-king's toast.

A sextet of waiters appeared behind them from one of the hidden entrances Legolas found so disconcerting—swiftly placing an array of dishes upon the table.

As with the wine, Thranduil had spared nothing in regards to the menu; upon the table were two kinds of roasted meat, fish, lightly crisped potatoes accompanied by other root vegetables roasted to golden perfection, roasted cinnamon apples, brussels sprouts dripping with butter, freshly baked bread, steaming hot popovers and an array of exotic cheeses, olives and dates.

Scanning the contents of the table, Legolas's gaze stumbled upon one dish down the way that made his stomach drop. For what he saw staring back at him from a spotless silver platter was none other than Nordirion's severed head with an apple stuffed into his open mouth.

Clouded grey eyes stared at him as he fought to find his breath. The strands of brown hair fell upon the silver plate and disappeared between the leaves of bright green garnish.

Legolas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His body began to tremble and his heart beat haphazardly as he tried to regain control.

Hallucinations flew upon the wings of exhaustion, he told himself. That's all that ailed him; nothing more. Nordirion's head had been left in the grasslands to rot under the baking sun. The young elf would not—could not—return. That head resting on the table was only a product of his imagination running rampant since his body still worked to heal itself. This would stop eventually. It was fine. He was fine.

"Legolas," he heard a soft voice speak through the blackness and the smell of tobacco smoke filled his senses, ridding his mind of the horrible images flashing before him.

He opened his eyes to find grey-blue eyes watching him again from across the table, this time with concern.

Legolas glanced back over to where he had seen Nordirion's head and felt a wave of relief wash over him when all that greeted him was a seared head of a roasted boar with an apple resting in its mouth.

"Are you feeling alright?" Gandalf asked the visibly shaken prince.

Turning back to his friend with the same painted smile, "Yes, just a little tired is all."

The wizard's gaze lingered upon Legolas for a few moments longer, but then he nodded his satisfaction for the answer and scooped another portion of brussels sprouts onto his plate.

The rest of the evening went effortlessly. The atmosphere remained light and cheerful as everyone in attendance had been friends for ages and had plenty to catch up on.

For the most part Legolas watched in silence. Still slightly shaken from the earlier vision, he found some solace at the bottom of his wine glass. And no one found his subdued behavior odd by any means, as the prince usually remained quiet in group settings.

Legolas listened as Gandalf chatted with Thranduil about forest management while Elrond, Celeborn, and the twins talked about the political counsel drama going on within Rivendell compared to that happening in Lothlorien.

Then the sound of a fork tapping against a wine glass brought the room down into silence.

With a closed-lip smile Thranduil nodded his thanks for his guests attention, "I hope the meal was to everyone's liking." The elf-king paused and scanned the room for nods of agreement—which he quickly received. "Before the night becomes late, there is a matter of importance that we need to discuss." Thranduil turned to Legolas and beckoned him, "Legolas recently came upon a unruly band of orcs, who impressively overtook his entire party, taking him and three of his men prisoner."

His father's dagger hit it's mark and sunk deep, but Legolas did not let it be seen. Face blank, he met his father's challenge with a nod.

"That is true." Legolas stated as he looked around the room at all the eyes upon him, "We came upon a camp of orcs just outside the eastern border of the forest. They appeared to be settling down to rest and their behavior did not appear uncharacteristic, except for how close they had camped to our borders. When we approached on foot, my entire party including myself was caught off guard by several buried mines."

A flash of dirt flying at him and a distant explosion met his ears, but he shook it away and continued, "All preliminary scouting of the camp was done as always. The orcs appeared as if they did not see us coming. When the traps exploded they had enough firepower to kill several of my men immediately."

"Orcs using explosives; this is new indeed. Do you know what they intended to do with you upon your capture?" Elrond asked him from across the table.

Swallowing, Legolas dropped his gaze to the wine glass in front of him, "I do not. It appears we were mere playthings. Not holding much importance besides entertainment."

And _food_ —the voice in his head chimed in. His chest tightened and his stomach churned as he remembered the smell of burning flesh and saw the orcs chomping on his companions bones, tearing away at his flesh and ligaments.

"Except they were taking you somewhere." Thranduil spoke up, "You mentioned they killed two of your party for food—"a look of disgust flashed across the elf-king's face, "—but the second one to fall— Gadrion was his name, correct? Unlike the first captive casualty, Gadrion was first subjected to extreme torture along with you and Guard Captain Tauriel, then only chosen as food for being the first to fall unconscious from his injuries, is that correct?"

Though he remained calm and collected on the outside, Legolas's stomach twisted and punched him from within as his father continued retelling the tale. Lightheadedness began to give him a sense of motion sickness—so he took a drink of wine to try and subdue the rising nausea.

Legolas turned back to his father who watched him closely and said flatly, "Yes. That is correct."

Raising his chin slightly, Thranduil's eyes remained locked on his paling son, "While you were with the orcs, did you ever hear where they were taking you?"

Legolas shook his head, "No."

Breaking eye contact and shifting in his seat, Thranduil intertwined his fingers and rested on his elbows—sliding his gaze back to Legolas, "I believe this no mere coincidence, we all know orcs to be bloodthirsty savages, but rarely do they take prisoners unless ordered to do so. My belief is that they are making new orcs."

A quiet gasp traveled across the table.

Thranduil's blue eyes darted to the faces of his guests, "I believe what Legolas witnessed and endured to be a purging process on their part. They capture the survivors, cull the weak, and take the strongest back to their base to create the new generation of orcs."

"That would mean they are preparing for something," Elrond chimed in, "but I have yet to hear any reports of increased orc activity in the region as of late."

"It is not always easy to find that which does not want to be found." Gandalf muttered, leaning back in his chair with the pipe between his lips and his gaze distant.

"Do you speak of Dol Guldur, Gandalf?" Elrond turned and asked the wizard, "We cast out the Necromancer, you do not think it returned do you?"

"I do not think it has returned to Dol Guldur," Gandalf assured, "but that does not mean it is not being used by another under the disguise of abandonment as once before."

"Precisely." Thranduil concurred, "It is an well hidden outpost for collecting elves from Lorien and Mirkwood, and men from Rohan and Gondor in the south without much alarm." Shifting his gaze to Elrond, "That is why, Lord Elrond, you have not witnessed any of your people missing from Imladris, because you are guarded to the east by the Misty Mountains." Moving his gaze to Celeborn, Thranduil continued, "However, Lord Celeborn has reported three scouting parties disappearing as of late, the search parties finding nothing but the dead and beside large holes in the earth indicative of what we now know to be explosives."

Celeborn nodded his head at Thranduil's summary, "I have also heard rumor that Rohan has seen an increase in men of hunting and scouting missions going missing without a trace, yet their king only fears a wild beast taking his men, nothing more."

"So, it seems evil stirs beneath once again." Elrond said with a frown, "Do we make haste to Dol Guldur?"

The wizard shook his head and his distant gaze regained focus, "We must speak with Saruman of this. He will know what to do."

"In the meantime," Thranduil said, "we will remain vigilant. None are to travel through the forest alone."

Rising from his seat, Gandalf said, "I will ride out to Saruman in the morning. As for this evening," the grey wizard gave a kind smile and bow, "I will retire to my lodgings, for I am old and weary." he gave Legolas and the twins a wink as he turned his back and exited the grand hall.

Everyone else rose from their seats, chatting amongst themselves and making plans for the rest of the evening.

A hand slapped Legolas's back and the prince turned to see Elladan smiling at him, "Let us catch up in the armory. I want to show you a new bow I have been working on."

"It's not even ready!" Elrohir exclaimed, "What is he to look at but a whittled stick?"

"It is strung now," Elladan scowled at his brother, "and it's a work in progress that our famous archer friend here can assist me with the scope and weight so that I may make the best bow he has ever seen."

Legolas smiled at his two bickering friends and said, "As much as I would enjoy seeing your work, Elladan, I am feeling rather tired and think it best I retire for the evening as Mithrandir suggested."

Elladan's steel-grey eyes scanned him up and down, taking in the weary and pale appearance of his friend and nodded in understanding. "That would be best anyways, Legolas. It gives me more time to work on my masterful bow so that you can look upon it with awe once I show you."

Elrohir laughed so loudly that Elrond and several of the staff turned their heads to see what had caused the outburst.

Standing up, Legolas thanked the twins for their understanding and began to slowly walked towards the exit with the help of his crutches.

"Legolas!" Elrond called out from behind him.

Turning, Legolas saw Elrond waving at him from across the table.

"I will stop by your room after I finish up here, is that alright?"

Legolas nodded his head and yelled back, "They still have me in the infirmary, see me there."

Elrond nodded in understanding and turned back to his previous conversation with his father in-law.

And Legolas escaped the dining hall, making his way back to the small room in the infirmary that in that moment felt like a place of sanctuary.


	10. Chapter 10

***Author Note: Hello! Here is are next two chapters hot off the press! Thank you to all who reviewed, your words mean the world to me! 3 And for those following this story, thank you as well! Knowing people want updates makes me keep writing so I can keep giving you updates! That being said, I hope you like these next two chapters! Please let me know what you think in the comments, and if there is anything you'd like to see more or less of in the upcoming chapters.**

 **Chapter 10**

The chatter and bustle of the dining hall faded into the background as Legolas made his way back towards the hospital wing.

Due to his current use of crutches, the prince decided to take the long way around which involved a winding ramp carved out from the cave's stone to impersonate the massive root of a tree that circled downwards around the perimeter of the western part of the Halls.

With each swinging step the sounds around him faded, and before long the only sounds to be heard were those of his foot and crutches gently thumping against the worn walkway.

Though lanterns were lit along the one wall of the spiral walkway, the night's darkness swallowed everything around the little flickering flames so much so that the pools of darkness between lanterns could have hidden a crouching person or something worse. Legolas felt the tension rise within him as he stepped towards each new pool of shadow, expecting to hit something or have something something appear right in front of him.

Thick, black shadow filled the room's hollow center, spilling over onto the descending ramp—dark, finger-like shadows poured out past the railing slats onto the floor, reaching its solid, black tendrils at any who passed by.

Legolas avoided walking too close to the interior of the stairs, for the darkness seemed too alive; instead choosing to be as close to the wall and it's lights as his walking sticks allowed.

When light and dark fight for dominion over a space so intensely, the result can play tricks on the mind; things that are disappear, while things that are not —or should not be—materialize.

Legolas had never had problems with the dark before, but for some reason he could not stifle the rising unease in his heart.

As he continued forward, his sensitive ears picked up what sounded like footsteps behind him. At first, he continued without hesitation—expecting a palace employee to stride past him at any moment.

But after a few minutes, still no one appeared. The soft clacking of footsteps continued, and so did the tightening in his chest.

Finally, his senses screamed too loudly for him to ignore any longer; he stopped dead in his tracks and spun around to confront whoever walked behind him, but all that met him was darkness and the little orbs of orange and gold light cast from the lanterns hanging on the wall.

The darkness seemed to smother and dim the lantern's lights after he passed them, as if a monster of shadow stalked him while consuming everything in its path.

Staring deep into the darkness, the prince scanned the ascending path, searching for anyone or anything to be the source of the noise. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darker areas, and though he did not find anyone lurking, his senses told him someone or something _was_ there in the darkness, just beyond his sight. His neck and shoulders began to ache as he strained to see through the thick shroud of blackness that had befallen the path.

Then his eyes caught a shape. Or more so an outline. Standing steadfast within the swirling waves of blackness, a featureless enigma watched him. The thing had a humanoid build, but the prince's heart told him it did not belong of this world.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and his knuckles went white as he held the handles of his crutches tight. His unease heightened as he watched the thing in the darkness just stand there, unmoving.

Unbreathing. Legolas couldn't pick up any sounds of breath besides his own. And no scent rode upon the air besides that of candle wax and the earthy mildew from the stone surrounding them.

When Legolas tried to focus in on the figure, the blackness blurred the imposter's outline, making it disappear. But when he shifted his eyes, the figure reappeared within the darkness.

Whatever followed him, Legolas did not think it elven or human. The shoulders were broader, and the neck too thick. It stood at his or his father's height, though he could not see it's legs.

He did not call to it, for he did not feel it would answer. Seeing as it did not attack, Legolas decided to continue forward. Without any weapons besides the wooden sticks he leaned upon, a fight on the narrow pathway would not end well for him.

But when he turned back around to continue on his way, he stumbled back a step when he saw another creature cloaked in shifting shadow watching him from further down the path.

Surrounded, Legolas tried to find another means of escape. The infirmary lay only a few hundred feet down the ramp and through one more hallway, but jumping down from the railing in his current condition would most likely end in another broken ankle or leg, so he would only take that route as a last resort.

Turning back around, the figure behind him had not moved; within the veil of shadows it continued to only watch him.

Because neither enigma seemed overly aggressive at the current moment, Legolas took a deep breath in and decided to continue forward as if he did not see the shadowy creatures. But his body remained tense and ready to jump over the railing if the situation called for it.

Forging ahead, Legolas found he lost sight of the creature that had stood in front of him. Unsure of whether it actually gone or just hidden, he did not dally in descending the last bit of the ramp.

Once his foot landed on the flat surface, he let out a large breath of air he didn't know he had been holding.

The hallway ahead was long and dark. There were several similar hallways from other places within the Halls that all lead to the large lobby of the infirmary, like arteries flowing into a heart. And like veins draining into an artery, there were several smaller hallways branching from each main one.

Usually, this particular hallway was a noisy and bustling thoroughfare with lots of people passing back and forth, but at such a late hour as now the hallway lay silent and sleeping.

Just like on the winding ramp, small, candle lit sconces rested three-quarters of the way up on the walls, creating glowing, golden circles of light along the blackened hallway.

At the end of the hallway lay the infirmary. But due to the late hour, the doors were closed, creating a tunnel of darkness that stretched out from the depths and crawled along the edges and cracks the candle's light could not touch.

Shaking off the cloak of unease that now draped itself across his weary shoulders, Legolas pressed on, ignoring the nagging feeling in his gut to be vigilant.

The air sat still and heavy within the narrow passage, but Legolas ignored it. He had always had a twinge of claustrophobia, and the impending darkness did not make the walls or ceiling feel any farther away.

Then, from somewhere within the darkness came a noise.

Legolas froze, his ears straining to locate the sound again. It had sounded like a snort. Like something sucked in air, snorted, and then smacked its lips.

A flash of tendon being ripped from bone through small, pointed teeth flashed in his mind and he stumbled, barely catching himself on the wall. Heart pounding, he lifted a shaky hand and gripped his forehead for a moment, trying to settle his nerves that were so uncharacteristically jumpy.

After a few deep breaths and no other sounds, Legolas shook his head and swung his crutches out to begin again.

As he passed the halfway mark of the long stretch of hall, another noise sounded from up ahead.

A pop immediately followed by a loud clap met his ears. Though slightly lower in pitch, the sound seemed to be that of whip being cracked against something. Then came a loud shriek.

Legolas's chest tightened and he found himself frozen in place. A few other unintelligible sounds came to him from the dark pit at the end of the hallway, and the prince felt a bead of sweat trail down the left side of his face as he stared into the dark abyss, trying to see what may be hiding within.

The thoughts in his head started to collide and fall apart. Uncertainty wracked his mind as he became confused on where he was or why he was there. Things started to look unfamiliar—the small flickering candles began to morph into torches hung on dungeon walls, their light taking on a blood red hue. He suddenly wasn't sure if he had actually escaped the orcs, or if he was now in their dungeon. The past few days felt like a dream and an icy fear spread through him that he had just woken up.

The sounds from the darkness seemed to growl and draw closer. He needed to arm himself, for every nerve in his body screamed that something was getting closer, despite his eyes seeing nothing.

The candles on the walls seemed to flicker with every sound, and the shadows lengthened and reached towards him. Within the hallway's abyss, the dark imposters reemerged.

Dropping one crutch, Legolas picked the other one up and held it in both hands, readying himself to use it as a club.

Keen eyes darted from one wall to the other and back as he tried to see if it was the shadow figures he felt approaching or if another stalked him from within the darkness.

The dark imposters faded and rematerialized in the shifting and flowing blackness, but they did not advance. Something else was coming, every nerve in his body told him to ready himself.

Legolas felt his casted ankle protest the weight he forced it to bear as he stood ready to defend himself, but if he had any hope of surviving an attack he needed a firmer stance. So with a deep breath, he ignored the sharp pain radiating up his left leg, twisting and yanking under his knee cap and digging icy-hot talons into every muscle as it climbed upwards within his body. He turned his mind to focusing on steadying his rapid pulse since his heart felt as if it would crack through his sternum if it continued at its current pace.

Footsteps approached from behind him. The veteran warrior acted as if he did not hear the advance until he knew they were within striking distance; as soon as it was, Legolas swung the crutch around with all his strength and hit his target with a loud crack.

A startled shout and Legolas dropped the crutch in horror.

"Master Elrond!" Legolas gasped as the older elf fell against the wall, a look of shock and confusion on his face.

Slowly Elrond pushed himself back away from the wall and said, "Remind me not sneak up on you again, or risk decapitation." the older elf gave a closed-lip smirk as he rubbed his upper shoulder with his other hand.

"Did I hurt you?" Legolas asked, a hint of panic in his voice.

Elrond shook his head, "Not badly. I will survive. A small bruise most likely, that is all." his peeked through his widening smile, "I may be old, but I can still deflect a blow."

"My—my sincerest apologies, Mast Elrond." Legolas said with a downcast gaze as he rubbed the back of his spasming neck.

"Do not fret for I am fine." coffee colored eyes dropped down to the prince's feet and scanned their way back up. A slight tremor travelled through the prince's body and his face now appeared paler than it had been at the evening meal. His breathing sounded erratic and his pupils were fully dilated. Elrond walked up to Legolas and gently placed a hand on the younger elf's shoulder, "Are you alright? What were you defending yourself from?" he said as he glanced around the corners of the archway above them.

Legolas shook his head and licked his dry lips, "I—I saw something," his brows furrowed at the memory. Glancing up at Elrond, "Dark figures, Elrond. They did not seem of this world."

Elrond's brows drew together as he asked, "What did these dark figures look like?"

Shaking his head again, Legolas dropped his gaze, "I could not see any features for they hid in the shadows. But they were large and did not seem of human or elven kind."

"Did they speak to you?" Elrond questioned.

"I—I—no...they did not." Legolas began to feel dizzy as the adrenaline rush began to dwindle, and his body suddenly felt incredibly heavy.

"Are you alright?" Elrond asked as he ducked slightly to try and meet the prince's down-turned gaze, "Let us get you to the infirmary, shall we?"

Legolas nodded, his eyelids drooped and he felt like laying down right there in the hallway.

"And here," Elrond said picking up one of the crutches from at the prince's feet, "Let us get you off that leg and use these as they were intended. Yes?" he handed both walking sticks to Legolas who placed them back under his arms.

Elrond walked with Legolas the rest of the way down the hallway and soon the closed door to the infirmary came into view.

As they stepped up to the infirmary door, Legolas looked to his right and saw a small room with an open door, within the room were two healers—both young silvan males. On strings stretched across the room hung freshly cleaned and damp bandages, linens, and towels. On the floor were several buckets, some filled with clean water, others with soapy bubbles that brimmed the top.

Not realizing that anyone else roamed the halls so late, the shorter of the two healers took a wet towel from a bucket of water and wound it up tightly —allowing the excess water to pour back into the bucket— and then his brown eyes narrowed and he quietly snuck up behind the taller male who stood at a table with his back turned to all of them.

With a quick flick of his arm and wrist, the shorter elf thrust the towel out and then quickly back to him, cracking the end of the towel on the taller elf's behind.

The pop then clap of the towel against the air sounded almost exactly like that of a whip.

The taller elf yelped and jumped from where he had been folding the dry towels.

"That's four to one!" exclaimed the shorter elf as he laughed.

The taller healer swung around and glared at his friend while rubbing the sore spot on his ass, "I will get you back, that I promise! It will be when you least expect it!"

"I will believe that when I see it." the shorter elf said as he dunked the towel back in a bucket of water and sat down in a chair next to it. Then he reclined back and tilted his face towards the ceiling and in a bored voice moaned, "When do we get to move on from this cruddy chore? I hate linen washing and folding every night. It is so tedious! Why can't we get something more interesting like medicine inventory."

Both healers laughed sarcastically.

"Ahem." coughed Elrond as his eyes remained fixed on the door while his hands clasped behind his back.

Both healers jumped and straightened as if struck by lightning, and their cheeks turned blood red. Both quickly looked around the room with wide eyes, leaping to the closest task available so as to appear busy.

Legolas glanced over to Elrond who had a sly smirk on his face as he reached for the door handle and turned it.

As the large, double doors opened, the night's darkness was obliterated by the bright glow of the infirmary lobby.

Circular in both width and height, the center of the domed room held a large fountain feature with a statue sculpted from a dark green stone. The statue depicted a healer helping an injured warrior who knelt at her side. Water poured from holes around the base of the statue into a large circular pool with crystal blue water.

This room had greenery everywhere and resembled a greenhouse as much as a hospital. Thick, healthy vines crawled up the walls and pillars throughout the room, and two branching wooden arches met above the center statue, where the climbing vines traveled down around the healer and wounded warrior, creating a bed of foliage at their stone feet.

Being still within the cavernous Halls where no sunlight could reach, the architects who built the area came up with a way to allow natural light to always glow in this central area. They had built a double ceiling—the top made from the cavern's stone, while the lower layer was made up of a clear, semi-translucent material which allowed light to flow through uniformly while still remaining gentle to the eyes and other senses.

The continuous light came from small, round stones that held within them captured living light; each one shedding enough light to illuminate a small room like a lamp would. The stones were then attached to the stone ceiling and placed behind the semi-transparent ceiling where their intense golden-white light could flow through illuminating the entire chamber as if a bright, cloudless sky hung above them.

Legolas felt his body relax the moment the doors to the dark hallway closed behind them. His heart and mind felt lighter as the smells and sounds of the water, plants, and light enveloped him.

At that moment, a door to the right coming from another artery opened and the healer Amondaer appeared, holding a stack of towels and two glass bottles on top.

The brown haired elf turned and startled slightly when he saw the other two elves watching him, "Oh! Prince Legolas and Master Elrond, I did not expect to see either of you up at such a late hour." looking down at the items in his hands, he said, "I am just restocking some of the rooms, it's easier to do when there are not a lot of people around."

Elrond gave an understanding nod, "How are you fairing Amondaer? I hope that your new life in Thranduil's Halls has been what you hoped."

Amondaer's face lit up with a huge smile as he walked over to where Elrond and Legolas stood, "Yes, sir. I cannot thank Master Celeborn enough for his generosity in helping me."

Elrond smiled, "Well, you are a good healer with a natural sense for the art, King Thranduil is lucky to have you on board."

The healer's eyes grew wide and glistened in the domed light, then he bowed, "You honor me, Master Elrond. Thank you for such kind praise."

Legolas understood that pleasantries ought to be exchanged when two people ran into each other—especially when one is a superior, but the waves of exhaustion and physical pain from doing too much that day began to become difficult to hide, and he had to lean much of his body weight onto the pair of crutches while he stood in wait for the other two to finish.

Thankfully, Elrond seemed to catch on to the waning prince at his side. Clearing his throat, Elrond asked the healer, "Amondaer, I need you to bring a few items to Legolas's room so that I may work on his leg."

Amondaer nodded exuberantly, "Yes! It would be my honor, your lordship. Tell me what you need and I will bring it right away."

After Elrond gave Amondaer the list of items he wanted, the healer scurried off back through the door from which he came.

"Show me to your room, Legolas." Elrond said placing a gentle hand between the prince's rounded shoulders.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Once the two elves navigated a few halls and made a few rights and lefts, they made it to Legolas's recovery room in the back of the hospital.

"Go ahead and lay on the bed if you would for me, Legolas." Elrond said as he closed the door.

Legolas did as told he sitting down on the bed he swiveled and raised his legs onto the bed. Instantly he felt a rush of relief from a dull aching pain he hadn't even realized had overtaken the lower half of his left leg until the elevation helped it fade.

Elrond pulled up a chair from the wall and sat down next to the casted leg. Taking a pair of scissors that had been laying on the table by the wall, he looked at the leg and then to Legolas, "I will need to remove the bandages so that I can see how the leg is healing."

Legolas nodded and watched as Elrond slid the shears through the layers of bandages, slowly peeling them away like an onion.

Legolas felt the pressure surrounding his lower leg, ankle, and foot lighten as the cast of bandages peeled away; then an intense, searing pain began to grow from the ankle and spread up his leg and down into his foot.

Elrond noticed out of the corner of his eye the quiet prince suck in a sharp breath of air and turn away as his shoulders rose to his ears and his fingers dug into the bedsheets.

Rising from his seat, Elrond hopped over to the table with all the healers medicines, quickly sifting through the various jars and vials looking for something in particular.

"My apologies, Legolas. I did not think that would hurt as much as it seems to be. Here!" he said as he grabbed something from a large jar and brought it back to the bed. Placing his hand out to the prince, he unfolded his fingers to expose a thin, curled strip of ash-brown bark. "Chew on this. It is bark from the willow tree which should help take some of the pain away."

Having had many injuries over the centuries, Legolas knew exactly what the strip of tree was and quickly snatched it from Elrond's hand and tossed it in his mouth and began to grind it between his teeth.

The familiar bitter-earthy taste spread across his tongue and he swallowed as his mouth salivated to cleanse his palate.

Elrond visually inspected the swollen, purple and yellow leg but did not touch it until the willow bark took it's anesthetic effects.

Fifteen minutes later and the edge had been taken off the sharp pain searing up his limb, and Legolas gave Elrond a nod to continue.

The prestigious healer placed both hands gently around the ankle and felt around. The pressure hurt more than Legolas expected from a limb that had already gone through one healer and had a two days of rest, but he kept his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself as he watched Elrond work.

The brown haired elf's head ticked to the left as his tongue peeked out between his teeth, "Does this hurt?" he said as he shifted both hands slightly.

An excruciating wave of pain shot up the prince's leg and kicked him in the stomach. Legolas's body flung itself forward, a sharp gasp escaped his clenched jaw and his fingers dug new holes into the sheets beneath him.

"I'll take that as a yes." Elrond said with a slight frown at the prince's reaction, "Whoever treated this missed the fact that the ankle bone is dislocated on top of being broken in several places. This never would have healed right."

Instead of fully listening to Elrond, Legolas focused on his breath while he remained folded over his legs, trying to allow the pain to flow out of his body with as little resistance from his muscles as possible. And since he did not have any idea who had worked on him when he had been rescued, his input on the matter was of no use to the perplexed healer, anyways.

The door of the recovery room creaked open, and Amondaer appeared with the supplies Elrond had requested earlier.

Turning to look over his shoulder Elrond beckoned the other healer, "Come, help me."

Amondaer nodded and brought the stack of items over to Elrond and placed them on the end table, glancing over at Legolas who kept his face hidden behind his hair as he hung his head over his outstretched legs.

Worry lines appeared on the apprentice healer's face, "Is everything alright?" he asked, eyes shifting from Legolas to Elrond.

"It will be," Elrond said as he focused his attention back on the bruised appendage, "Give one of those hand towels to Legolas, please."

Amondaer nodded and grabbed and unfolded a slender towel and placed it near Legolas's right hand which still remained tangled around the sheets.

"Legolas, I need you to put that towel in your mouth." Elrond said warily as he glanced over to the blonde.

With a twitch, Legolas's fingers found the towel and wrapped around it. The prince slowly raised his head and revealed a face as white as snow and an expression hard as steel.

Without saying a word or looking at either healer, Legolas placed the towel vertically in his mouth and leaned back on the pillow.

Lips pressed together, Elrond nodded and looked back to the leg. He placed his hands strategically on either side of the ankle, and then brown eyes darted to Amondaer, "Restrain him."

Amondaer's eyes widened and his brows pulled up in confusion, but then Elrond snapped his hands and a blood-curdling shout emanated from Legolas's muffled mouth and his back lurched and arched upwards; teeth bared as they punctured the towel that lay between them.

"Restrain him!" Elrond yelled as he held the leg from being torn out of his grasp and a glowing blue light began to emanate beneath the healer's hands.

Amondaer jumped and flung his body onto Legolas's chest to keep him from leaping off the table; amber eyes watched as the prince's face turned red and blood vessels bulged and popped out of his neck and forehead.

Elrond's eyes were now closed and he whispered some incantation under his breath. Legolas's growls dwindled into low groans as his watery blue eyes remained locked on the ceiling and his hands clenched the sheets until his hands were pink and white.

Elrond continued to chant while moving his hands around the broken ankle, the blue light growing beneath his hands.

Harsh, jagged breaths came from the prince as his eyes remained locked on the ceiling above. His exhausted body trembled all over as the pain slowly eased and retracted back to the ankle. The healing energy Elrond emitted from his hands sent a cool, numbing sensation throughout the prince's body and seemed to wrap and wash over every muscle, ligament and bone in his leg.

Amondaer, still lying on top of Legolas, gently reached over and placed a warm hand on the side of the prince's face. A wave of warm energy soaked into his skin and travelled through his skull and neck, relaxing and dissolving all the tightness and spasming the relocation had caused.

At that point, Legolas lost track of time. He drifted off into an in-between sleep where he walked within dreams, but still heard things happening around him.

Eventually, he heard Elrond's voice through the swaying darkness call to him to wake. Opening heavy lids, Legolas found that all the pain in his body had disappeared.

He pushed himself up from where he lay, and swung both legs off the bed and stood up. Looking all around at his legs, his excitement must have shown on his face because Elrond spoke.

"You should be feeling much better." he said confidently to the awe-struck prince.

Legolas looked to Elrond and then back to his feet and then back to Elrond, "Completely better. You truly are incredible, Master Elrond. It is as if it never happened."

Elrond chuckled, "I reset the ankle back to its proper position and mended the bones that were partially healed." a look for disappointment furrowed his brows, "I would like to know who worked on your leg the first time, though. I am troubled that they did not see the dislocation, and in general it was poorly mended."

Legolas, now walking around the room and testing his maneuverability, turned to Elrond and shrugged his shoulders, "I do not know since I was unconscious."

"If I may speak, your lordship." Amondaer said timidly with a raised hand from the table by the wall.

Elrond nodded his permission to the healer.

"Cestë was the healer who tended to Prince Legolas when he first arrived. She took care of both Prince Legolas and Guard Captain Tauriel."

At the mention of her name, Legolas whipped around to look at Elrond again, "That is it. Master Elrond, if you would tend to Tauriel, she may finally recover from her coma that she has been in since we arrived."

Elrond's expression was that of concern as he moved his gaze between the pleading prince and submissive healer, "I would like to speak with Cestë tomorrow morning," he said, then turning to Legolas, "And I will see to Tauriel as well."

"Can it be tonight?" Legolas asked, "She is somewhere in this hospital. They have her in isolation so that only the Sage Masters may tend to her."

An image of Tauriel lying in a dark room with only light from above streaming in and illuminating her cool, pale skin flashed before Legolas's eyes. There was something familiar about the image and a feeling of dread filled him. But he shook it off as nothing and focused on convincing Elrond to aid her immediately.

"I—" Elrond hesitated for a moment, but seeing the worry etched into Legolas's features, he let out a sigh and bowed his head, "I will go to her as soon as I leave here."

"I am in your debt, Master Elrond. Thank you." Legolas said with a sigh of relief.

With that worry pushed aside, the wave of exhaustion hit the prince again, and he swayed slightly as if caught in an actual ocean wave.

"Come, you need to rest." Elrond said seeing Legolas move precariously in the middle of the room.

Legolas nodded and walked back over to the bed and sat down next to Elrond with his elbows resting on his knees.

"Here you go, your highness," Amondaer said offering him a cup of steaming hot tea in a white cup. Then the healer grabbed another from the table and said, "And for you, your lordship."

"Thank you, Amondaer." Elrond said as he took the cup. Then he turned to Legolas and asked, "Now, Legolas, before I go, I am curious to know more about your last exploit, and what really happened."

Legolas turned to Elrond, "What do you mean—what really happened?"

Cocking his head, Elrond replied, "Hearing any tale from those besides the source always leads to misconstrued information. I am just curious."

Legolas nodded his head in understanding, "I believe you heard most of the technical details earlier this evening in the dining hall."

Elrond nodded as he took a sip of tea, "Do you know why the orcs did what they did?" glancing down the prince's left leg, "That injury was from a devastating blow, and I've been told it was just one of many injuries you suffered."

Blades of ochre colored grass swayed in the wind from behind the standing stone. The cracking and snapping of whips echoed in the breeze as yells of pain rose on either side of him.

The vision of Gadrion hanging from his crimson-stained stone, blood pouring out of his right eye with his gold hair drenched and tangled around his face as he stared up at Legolas flashed in front of the prince's eyes.

Legolas flinched at the image before closing his eyes to shake it out of his head. Wanting to give his friend the information he desired, Legolas struggled to beat back the images and put them into words.

Seeing the prince's reaction and internal struggle, Elrond placed a hand on the elf's knee and patted it, "It is still too early. Let us speak of this another time, when you are more rested."

Legolas nodded and rubbed his hand over his eyes.

Elrond rose from his seat and handed Amondaer his tea cup.

With a loud creak, the recovery room door opened, again.

"Your majesty." Amondaer declared with an exaggerated bow.

"Thranduil?" Elrond said with a head tilt, "What brings you here at such a late hour?"

Raising his chin slightly and peering down at Elrond, Thranduil said, "I could ask you the same thing, Master Elrond." Bold, blue eyes darted over to Legolas who watched his father with a pale, weary expression.

"I needed to examine Legolas's leg." Elrond turned to the sitting prince, then turned back to the elf-king, "He was still experiencing pain and it turns out the ankle was still dislocated and would not have healed correctly."

Thranduil's right eye twitched slightly as he listened to the master healer, "I see," he said. Then, something seemed to flip a switch in his blonde head and the stoic elf-king donned a more pleasant expression, "praise be for your masterful skills in the healing arts." Thranduil closed his eyes and gave a tilted head-bow, "Thank you for assisting my son, Elrond." then he raised his head, "Now, if you two are finished, I would like a moment alone with my son."

"Can this not wait until tomorrow, Adar?" Legolas asked as he yawned.

Thranduil turned to his son, "No. I must speak with you now."

"It is not a problem," Elrond said turning to Legolas and then to Amondaer, "We will take our leave. Legolas has asked me to take a look at his friend Tauriel this night to see if I can lend her aid."

Thranduil's head snapped to the older elf, "That will not be possible."

"Why not?" Legolas's argued, his heavy-lidded eyes brightened with a new fire of adrenaline; his hands preemptively curling into fists.

Thranduil turned to his son, "Because I said so." the elf-king inhaled deeply to calm himself. Then, he turned back to Elrond who stared at him with a suspicious expression, "Please meet me in my office, I will speak with you once I am done here."

"Why will you not allow him to see Tauriel?" Legolas asked sternly as he stood up to confront his father.

Thranduil did not respond to Legolas, his gaze remained fixed on Elrond as he said, "Please, go to my office. Both of you— leave, now."

Amondaer bowed nervously and Elrond nodded his goodbye to both father and son, giving Legolas a secret wink as he turned to leave the room.

With a soft thud, the door closed behind the healers as they left the other two alone.

Once they were alone, Thranduil dropped his gaze from that of his seething son's, and walked over to the room's one window that looked out into the courtyard garden.

Both were silent for several minutes; Thranduil stared out the window while Legolas watched him glared at his back.

Finally, Thranduil turned around and faced his son."I came here tonight to deliver ill news."

"I presumed as much due to the hour." Legolas snapped.

Sighing dejectedly, Thranduil continued, "Nothing I say will make the news any better, so I will just say it."

"As is your way, anyways." Legolas retorted.

"Tauriel is dead."

As the words fell from his father's lips, the sound of shattering glass echoed somewhere in the back of Legolas's mind and the stone floor beneath him vanished. He did not know how he did not fall, but he remained floating over the void.

Thousands of scenes of Tauriel flashed through Legolas's mind. The honey-sweet fragrance of _lissuin_ enveloped his senses as a memory of her turning and swishing her long, auburn hair in front of him emerged. Her confident, dulcet laugh echoed in his ears as if she stood right next to him.

The memories were so clear that he felt if he stretched his arm out to touch her, he could feel her again. His fingers tingled with the memory of her skin; his hand reached out to the vivid scenes before him, just to touch her living-vibrancy one last time; to remember and store away forever. But it was not so; no matter how hard he focused, Tauriel remained untangable.

"Legolas?" Thranduil voice found him in the whirlwind of images, "Did you hear me?"

All the pictures and scenes running rampant in his mind disappeared; and before him stood his father and king, eyeing him with concern.

"Yes. I heard you." Legolas finally found his voice to speak. He felt numb. Lost. A part of him wanted to shout and break things, while another part wanted to fall to the floor sobbing, but all he could actually do was stand there and stare at his father.

"I presume you have questions…" Thranduil spoke cautiously, blue eyes scanning his son and gauging his reactions.

Barely blinking, Legolas's distant stare refocused on his father and he said dully, "When—when did she pass?"

"Early this morning."

Anger flashed in the prince's glazed eyes, "Why am I just now hearing of this?" Legolas's voice raised as the shock began to wear off, "Why was I not notified immediately?!"

"Because I needed you focused and prepared to brief the White Council this afternoon. I asked the Cestë and the other healers to keep the news private until you were told."

Though his face remained expressionless, Legolas's eyes flickered with ire at his father. The prince stared at and through Thranduil for several minutes before sweeping his hand across his face and disengaging, "Where is she?"

"In the morgue." Thranduil said matter-of-factly, "I requested her body be prepared for burial tomorrow at dusk near the Forest River."

Legolas did not reply. Instead, he shoved passed his father towards the door.

"Where are you going?" The elf-king asked.

"To see her." Legolas said caustically as he opened the door.

Before Thranduil could ask or say anything more, Legolas slammed the door and left his father alone.


	12. Chapter 12

***Author Note: Two new chapters! I hope you like them! And thank you so much to all who have reviewed, it means so much!**

 **Chapter 12**

Elrond waited in the elf-king's office as requested. The Lord of Rivendell scanned the bookshelves that lined the walls of the room, eventually finding one of interest. He grabbed a book of medium breadth, it's spine rough and worn from years of use. Opening the old instrument of knowledge, he took a seat on the dark green velvet chaise that sat back between two bookshelves in a small reading nook. Three floor-to-ceiling windows surrounded the nook, framed by twisting branches that grew from the floor upwards, climbing the walls into the high ceiling.

Thranduil's office sat high up in the palace like an eagle's nest, the windows in the nook looked down upon the main chamber so the elf-king could watch his people's comings and goings as he pleased.

Thirty minutes passed as Elrond scanned the pages of the old book, it's pages brown and brittle with age. Not that interested in his choice of reading, Elrond occasionally peeked out into the sleeping chamber below in hopes of finding something more interesting to watch.

The minutes ticked by as the Lord of Rivendell waited, shifting now and again in the sprung velvet chaise—it's cushioning having seen better days.

The soft flickering of flames on the candlestick wicks and the crinkling of Elrond rubbing his moist fingers against two stuck pages were the only sounds to be heard as he waited for his friend.

Then, the sound of footsteps echoed from the the winding staircase which lead to the perched office. The footsteps were long in stride yet light, and distinctly Thranduil's.

The metallic click and squeak of the doorknob being pushed down announced a presence entering. As the door moved inward with a low groan, Thranduil appeared.

Elrond closed the book and stood from the velvet chaise, "Hello, again." he said as the elf-king gently closed the door and turned back to face him.

Thranduil gave a faint smile and side-nod then said hoarsely, "Thank you for seeing me at such a late—or I guess now _early_ —hour." He walked behind the desk and pulled out his chair and sat down with less coordination and grace than usual.

Elrond met Thranduil on the other side of the desk, bringing with him a chair that sat in wait by the far wall for when the elf-king had the occasional company.

Thranduil leaned back in his chair and massaged his forehead with eyes closed for a moment. Then, he pushed himself back up out of the chair and walked briskly over to the silver tray which held a decanter of golden-brown liquid and poured two glasses. Thranduil grabbed both glasses and handed one to Elrond.

"I could have gotten that." Elrond said as he took the glass.

"Do not be absurd, you are my guest." Thranduil said with a flick of his free hand as he sat back down in his chair.

"A guest who has known you longer than most alive today." Elrond replied with a smile as he took a sip from his glass.

"How very true." Thranduil acknowledged while giving a half-hearted smile. Bringing the crystal to his lips, he took a long drink, devouring half the liquid in the glass.

"So what did you need to speak with me so privately about?" Elrond asked.

Thranduil flinched slightly as he leaned forward and placed his drink on the desk, "Yes, that." he said with downturned gaze; then he focused his blue eyes back on his friend, "I appreciate you helping Legolas, and offering to heal Guard Captain Tauriel."

Elrond nodded, "Of course, I am always happy to help."

Thranduil held his friend's concerned gaze for a moment and then dropped his eyes again, "The situation is, up until a few minutes ago, Legolas did not know that Tauriel had passed away early this—or I guess now, yesterday—morning."

"Oh," Elrond said with a heavy nod, "I see."

"Because Legolas did not yet know his friend's fate, I could not tell you the news in front of him; so that is why I asked you here."

"I understand," Elrond said with a frown, "I am sorry to hear of the Guard Captain's passing." The Lord of Rivendell paused for a moment and took a sip of his drink. He then continued, "May I ask what she succumbed to? Both Legolas and Tauriel were rescued a several days ago now, were they not?"

Thranduil leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand against his chest he said, "The healer said poison from a piece of shrapnel embedded in her side."

"Did _athelas_ not heal it?" Elrond questioned, tilting his head slightly and setting his drink down on the desk.

Thranduil slowly shook his head as he stared through the desk in front of him, "I believe the healer mentioned something along the lines that they thought they had cleansed it all, but that it appeared they had not gotten to her in time; it had been too long and the poison remained in her bones."

"I see." Elrond said scratching his index finger against his temple, "By chance, was the healer who initially worked on Tauriel the healer known as Cestë?"

The elf-king's gaze lifted, "Yes. Cestë initially took care of both Legolas and Tauriel when they were rescued and brought back here. Once Tauriel was stable, but not progressing, she was handed over to the Sage Master's Maethanar and Limiel."

Elrond's gaze traveled past Thranduil and his brow wrinkled as he leaned back in his chair, "I would like to speak with this Cestë tomorrow if that is alright with you."

The elf-king nodded his head and then finished his drink, "Of course you may, but why? Do you feel she is incompetent?"

"I am hoping that is all she is." Elrond said, steepling his hands in front of him, "Legolas's dislocation was not difficult to find. I do not know why a healer—let alone a head healer—would miss something so obvious." Coffee-brown eyes darted to Thranduil, "Would it be possible for me to take a look at Tauriel's body in the morning? I am curious to see the state of her myself."

"Of course," Thranduil said, "The burial is scheduled for tomorrow at dusk."

"Understood."

Elrond stood from his seat and grabbed both their empty glasses and refilled them. As both elves drank, they sat in silence, mulling through their own thoughts.

Finally, Elrond spoke, "On another thought, I have some _slight_ concerns about Legolas."

Thranduil's thick eyebrows squished together, "In what regard? Are his injuries not healing correctly?"

"It is not his physical wounds for which I am concerned, but his mental ones." Elrond spoke gently for he knew the ground he tread was made of glass.

The elf-king's eyes sharpened and narrowed as he raised his chin, peering down his nose at his friend, "What exactly do you mean?"

Swallowing, Elrond clarified, "Earlier this evening, after our meeting in the dining hall, I came upon Legolas in one of the hallways leading to the infirmary." Elrond paused.

Thranduil nodded, "Go on."

"He was alone. When I came upon him, he was in a state of panic and confusion," Elrond frowned as he remembered the encounter, "it was as if he was fighting something, but there was nothing there from what I could see." he then met Thranduil's eyes, "Once he calmed down, he told me that he saw dark figures around, but he could not make out what they were."

Head flinching back slightly, Thranduil asked, "What creature's do you expect? I have not received any reports of sightings."

Elrond shook his head, "I am not so sure these dark figures exist."

"Then why would Legolas say that?"

Elrond's lips pursed together and he leaned forward in his chair. Placing a gentle hand on the desk, he spoke in a slow, steady voice, "Thranduil, when I found him, he was standing in the dark hall holding a crutch as a weapon to defend himself; he hit me with it when I came up behind him."

Thranduil's brows twitched together, but then relaxed as he downed the last of his drink and shook his head, "I am sure he is fine. He is still healing, he probably just overreacted due to being under the weather."

Elrond scowled at his friend's response. "I do not think that is the case, Thranduil. When he hit me, it seemed to break him out of whatever trance of terror he was in. He was acting as if he was surrounded by these dark enemies. When I quickly examined him, his heart rate was accelerated, his pupils dilated, and his skin was white as a rain lily. These are all signs of someone truly expecting a great threat or danger to come upon them."

"So?" Thranduil asked with a raised brow as he fiddled with the jewel necklace around his neck, "Legolas is a strong elf, both physically and mentally. I am sure he was just tired and his mind ran a little wild on him. It happens to the best of us."

Elrond shook his head, "I believe it is more than that, Thranduil. I am afraid he is _suffering_ within his mind. I've seen it happen to those who have experienced great cruelties, no matter how strong they are. It is as if their mind remains stuck in the past, reliving the horrific events over and over again."

Thranduil pursed his lips, "I understand that Legolas went through a very painful experience during his brief capture. And losing his close friend and captain of his guard is horribly unfortunate. But, this is not his first time enduring great physical pain or experiencing a great loss. _And_ he survived with life and limb, most are not so lucky. The encounter that has been recounted to me was not any different or worse than what others—including you and I—have endured. And I do not see any of us unable to move forward from our past—as you put it— _cruelties_."

"We do not always have full control of what our minds decide to get stuck upon, Thranduil. Just because you have suffered horrible atrocities and not had those memories relived without your permission does not make what your son may be suffering invalid."

"Not mere atrocities have I suffered, Elrond." Thranduil's eyes seemed to glow in the dim candlelight, "My father, along with three-quarters of my people were slain before my very eyes." he tapped his index finger hard upon his desk, "I heard my father's last choking breaths as he drowned in his own blood. I saw friends that I had grown with and known for ages cut down in the worst of ways. And after all of that, I _still_ picked up my sword and continued to fight, and I came out a _king_. I had did not have the luxury of time for grief or mourning; I had to gather what was left of my people to travel back to our homeland and rebuild _everything_." Thranduil leaned back in his chair and he took a deep breath, "So, I do not see how my son's brief captivity with a band of pathetic orcs could cause such mental distress as you suggest. My son is strong. He will be fine once he is fully recovered from his injuries."

Elrond sighed and gave a small nod, as he rose from his seat and turned towards the door. Turning to look over his shoulder, he said, "I must be leaving after tomorrow, I have things I must attend to back at home. And I hope you are correct in saying that Legolas is only tired and in need of recuperation and it is nothing more. But, I suggest you keep an eye on him to ensure his condition does not worsen. Despite what your personal thoughts on the matter are, Legolas has gone through a tremendous amount over the last week and he needs his father there for him."

Thranduil's head snapped to his friend and he said coldly, "I am _always_ there for him."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Legolas flung open the heavy iron doors that lead down to the infirmary; stale air hung thick in the closed-off corridor, a faint sickly sweet smell of decomposition and damp stone accompanied the darkness.

He stood at the entrance of the descending corridor for a moment, staring into the blackness, again. This time, it was not the darkness that made him uneasy, but what lay beyond the next set of doors.

A heaviness weighed in his stomach as he took the first tentative step. With a deep sigh, he forced the next step, and then the next.

The old walkway beneath his feet sweated with condensation and smell of mildew grew stronger as he ventured further into the tunnel.

The ceiling and walls hung very close together in this small corridor, since the only intended use for the path was to transport bodies single file. The prince began to feel as if the walls and ceiling were edging closer, as if narrowing to a point at the end of the tunnel. He swallowed hard as he pushed the growing panic aside, for he knew the tunnel did not go on forever, the next set of iron doors lay just ahead.

The sickly-sweet smell that only came with death strengthened with each step forward. Images began to flip through the prince's mind like a picture book of nightmares. All the memories that smell accompanied took that moment to rear their ugly heads, reminding him that the monsters in his past were never _truly_ gone—that those battles were never truly over.

Finally, he reached the next set of rusted iron doors. Pausing for a moment, Legolas took a deep breath in an attempt to relax his tensing muscles.

Raising both hands, he placed a palm on either side. The old doors were as cold as the bodies inside, he thought to himself as an icy shiver ran up his spine. Sucking in a deep breath, he pushed the doors apart.

After the grinding slide of the doors against the floor stopped, a cold, silent chamber lay before him. The ceilings had grown ten-fold compared to that in the tunnel.

In the center of the large chamber stood a row of thick, stone pillars, essentially dividing the room in half; most entering would walk down the right side, while those leaving would choose the left.

Each pillar had several niches carved out where a single burning candle sat, shedding plenty of light throughout the entire chamber.

On either side of the chamber several rows of iron benches sat against the walls with the same little niches carved out above to offer light for those who sat in wait to see their loved ones one last time. On either side of each bench sat a large, round, stone pot containing a dense mass of leafy, dark green plants; an attempt to bring beauty and fresh air to the naturally dismal and stuffy hall.

Behind the scent of beeswax, sulphur, and stale air lingered the smell of death. The pungent, sickly-sweet aroma was unlike any other scent in the world, and it made the prince's stomach churn.

Besides the soft flickering of candle's burning, the room lay silent—but not dead. The massive chamber had always felt cognisant, like a tree or the ocean. The looming chamber demanded respect and reflection, and Legolas always obeyed and made sure to tread lightly on it's grounds.

The prince came to the end of the chamber, and had the choice to turn right or left down more normal sized hallways. He turned right, for he knew that Tauriel would most likely be in one of the viewing rooms reserved for the dead who were soon to be buried.

Legolas didn't know exactly how many viewing rooms there actually were, but he knew there were several, and only once had he ever seen them all full at the same time.

Each iron door he passed had a small window cut out at eye level, allowing outsiders to peek in to each individual room before entering.

So far, each room lay empty; as he reached the middle of the hall and scanned the door to his left, his stomach sank.

A body lay in that room.

Closing his eyes, he took a breath; his fingers curling in and out of fists. Opening his eyes again, he approached the small window and took a closer look inside.

There she was. There Tauriel lay on golden sheets in a dark, lonely room. A bedside table held the only light within the small room; a thick, white candle that had burned for so long that it too neared the end of its life.

Legolas placed his hand on the cold, iron handle. Right before he pulled it a voice spoke from behind him.

"Hello, my prince."

Legolas spun around to see who had snuck up on him, only to sigh in relief when he saw it to be only the healer, Amondaer.

Covering his mouth with his hand, Legolas closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. Reopening them, he spoke softly, "You are a quiet one, Amondaer. You startled me. I did not expect anyone else to be down here at such an hour."

Amondaer tilted his head slightly, his amber eyes bright and glossy in the golden candlelight, "My sincerest apologies, your highness." he said calmly, placing a hand over his heart, "I did not mean to frighten you." The healer then unfolded a piece of fabric he held folded in his hands, "I brought you a cloak, my lord. It is cold down here and you are still in need of rest."

Legolas realized then how frigid it actually was in the deep, underground chamber as he wiggled his toes within his leather boots and found that they were painfully numb.

For a moment, Legolas wanted to accept the cloak and bask in it's warmth, but then he remembered that he had not told any but his father of his intentions to come down to the morgue

Taking a step back, Legolas's eyes narrowed, "Amondaer, how did you know I would be here?"

Pale cheeks flushed pink as Amondaer looked away, blinking several times, "I did not think how strange this would look. My apologies, your highness." the healer raised he amber eyes and looked at Legolas again, "But let me assure you that I mean you no harm. I knew what your father was doing in your room at such a late hour—to tell you the dreadful fate of your friend, Guard Captain Tauriel. You see, I am one of the few who has known of her passing since yesterday morning, and I know how deeply you care for her; I assumed you would rush down here to see her after receiving the news." Amondaer scanned the prince from head to toe and a fond smile spread across features, "And I knew you would not think of the temperature difference and bring yourself something warm, so I did." He then lifted the dark green cloak and let it fully unfold for the prince.

For a moment, Legolas did not reply. Something felt off. But after mentally running through everything that had happened, he could not seem to find anything wrong with the healer except his over-exuberant desire to please.

Sighing, Legolas grabbed the cloak and muttered, "Thank you." as he wrapped the dark green fabric around his shoulders.

The warm cloak did not help his frozen toes, but it helped ease the frigidness that had been spreading through the rest of his body.

As Legolas turned to continue his previous task of opening the door, Amondaer appeared at his side.

"Let me get that for you, your highness." the brown-haired elf chirped as he jumped and grabbed the handle. Before Legolas could say anything, the exuberant healer yanked the door almost directly into the prince's face.

"Oh! I am so sorry your highness!" Amondaer cried as he saw Legolas jerk backwards to avoid the door smacking him in the nose.

Taking a few steps back, Legolas shook his head and did his best to avoid eye contact with the red-faced healer. Due to an outstretched right arm now blocking his path, Legolas had to circle around the shorter elf to get to his destination.

"I'll be right out here if you need me, your highness." Amondaer said with a honeyed tone as he closed the door behind Legolas.

The door shut with a thud and a metallic click.

Silence weighed down heavily upon him as he stared at Tauriel who lay in the middle of the room on a simple and slender bed. Two wooden chairs sat on the other side of the bed for those who wanted to take their time with the deceased. All four walls held colorful painted murals depicting different scenes that were close to all elven hearts; most notably the right hand wall portrayed a group of elves waiting along the shore while a ship approached, most likely to take them to the Undying Lands.

Legolas swallowed hard as he gazed longingly at her still face, watching intently for any signs of movement or flicker of life. But after several minutes, Legolas let go of the hidden hope that this was all just some big mistake.

Stepping up to the side of the bed, the prince looked down at his friend and fellow soldier. A white pallidness now replaced her once warm, olive skin tone as she lay there with her hands folded over her lower abdomen. Long, dark brown lashes rested heavy against her pearlescent skin. The bruises and cuts were gone, but her hair was still cut short and now lay neatly brushed against the white pillow.

Without thinking, Legolas draped a small lock of hair over his fingers. Whoever prepared the body had trimmed the jagged edges left from the orc's blade; it now looked like she had chosen to have her hair that length.

The memories of the orc slicing Tauriel's hair as she stood helplessly tied to the whipping stone replayed in his head as he stared at the auburn strands of hair between his fingers.

"Can you ever forgive me?" he whispered to her; an excruciating ache formed in his chest and throat as he stared at her beautiful face. "Tauriel, I—I," he turned his face away and paused, pinching his lips together to steady their quiver, "I am so sorry." his quiet voice cracked, "I messed up. We— _I_ should never have allowed that attack. This—this is all my fault. You, Nordirion, Gadrion, _everyone_. I am so sorry."

The aching in his chest and throat spread like wildfire; his eyes and lungs burned as he forced the iron lid to remain shut on the emotions churning and threatening to burst forth from within him.

Despite everything whirling around inside of him, everything around him remained still. _Tauriel_ remained still. The only sound in the room was that of his own jagged breaths as he tried to remain in control.

His hand moved from her hair to gently touching her cool, waxy cheek—the sensation beneath his fingertips solidified the horrific reality of it all, and he felt as if someone stabbed an ice pick through his heart.

Scenes of Tauriel sitting beside him on a warm summer day as they sat beside the Forest River played in his mind. Her skin tanned and glowing as she laughed at something they had been discussing.

Dragonflies and hummingbirds zipped all around them, while the slower, calmer butterflies fluttered their bright colored wings in the sun while the birds all sang their own songs all around them.

Hidden between several large rocks, the little spot by the river had a sunbathing platform and a shady spot given by a large sycamore tree. Many days they had wanted a break from the tediousness of the Guard and had snuck off together for an hour or so to reset.

No one else knew of their spot by the river, and they both wanted to keep it that way. With both elves being of high positions, there weren't many places within the Halls where somebody wasn't asking them a question or needing directions.

But in that secret spot by the river, no one ever bothered them. It was the perfect place to swim, sunbathe, and talk. And if they heard the call to return, it was a quick trot back to the Guard post to resume normal duties with no one knowing the better.

It had been Tauriel who had shown him the spot in the first place. Not being of royal blood, she did not have the same eyes constantly on her as he did when they were young. She made the discovery while out exploring the forests, and had immediately devised a way to sneak him out of the Halls and out to it.

Legolas remembered how amazing it all was the first time she had shown the place to him. She had lead them along the river's rocky edge, leaping like a graceful deer from rock to rock, her face bright with excitement.

Once they had made it to the hidden spot, he remembered silently wishing to never leave. The absolute beauty all around them was like nothing he had ever witnessed before. The river they followed flowed against them, the spray from the crashing tides had dampened his boots and leggings as they had made their way. The smell of algae and mud mixed with the clean scented river water, and the birds chirped and warbled all around them. To Legolas, it had truly seemed like a magical place.

Looking at her now, he fought to make sense of this new reality. He struggled to wrap his mind around the idea that that vibrant, warm, and cheerful elf was the same one lying before him—forever cold, silent, and still.

Legolas's hand flew up and covered his mouth as he felt a wave of emotion crashed over him like a tidal wave, teetering him close to the precipice. His tearing eyes yanked upward, focusing on staring straight at the painted stone wall in front of him. He had no choice but to avert his gaze to anything besides Tauriel, for continuing to look at the shell of what was once his friend would lead to him falling to pieces.

After several deep and jagged breaths, his hand fell from his mouth as he brought his gaze back to her sleeping face.

"I will never forget you, Tauriel." he paused as he felt a burning lump in his throat begin rise. Swallowing, his voice was faint and strained, "You are forever in my heart, _ammaer i mellyn_ (best of friends)." He reached his hand out and gently stroked her hair and down her face before quickly turning and walking out of the viewing room.

As Legolas exited the viewing room as quickly as possible, he found the hallway now lay empty with Amondaer nowhere to be seen—much to the prince's relief.

In front of him stood the beginning of a slightly larger corridor with intricate carvings crawling up either side of the domed archway. At the very top of the arch a plaque read "EXAMINATION ROOMS".

Legolas knew that was where they performed autopsies on the dead or prepared the bodies for viewing before burial, he did not want to go that way.

With no one in sight, Legolas crouched down where he stood in the middle of the hallway and wrapped his arms around his legs. Closing his eyes and tucking his head down, he gently pressed his head against his knees and took a few deep breaths through his nose and out his mouth.

His chest ached and his limbs felt extremely heavy. Exhaustion began to creep in again as the emotional bombardment from moments before faded away.

For a few minutes, he just crouched there, tucked away within himself. He didn't feel better, but he also didn't feel worse; for a few minutes he just needed to not deal with all of it. He couldn't undo what was done, but he also couldn't see moving forward from it. Numbness seemed to overtake his body and mind as he sat there in the darkness behind his eyelids.

"My lord, are you alright?" a voice shattered his silence and a hand grabbed his shoulder; Legolas jerked away from the unwanted touch while also trying to leap up, which only lead to him falling on his backside against the hard floor.

"It is Amondaer, my lord. It is just me!" Amondaer waved both hands frantically, "Do not be afraid, it is just me."

Legolas gaped at the healer from behind his raised forearm which had risen instinctively to protect himself.

Amondaer's voice cracked as his shoulders rose,"I am so, so, sorry, your highness. I had no intention of startling you." his waving hands quieted and his shoulders dropped a little, "I thought you were ill, crouched there like that in the middle of the floor. I thought you needed help—and I thought you heard me approach." he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, "I am so very sorry. Please, please forgive my foolishness!"

Blinking several times, Legolas could do nothing but stare at the fool of a healer for a moment as he steadied his racing heartbeat.

Legolas felt incredibly confused by how this supposedly normal healer had been able to sneak up on him twice now. Even for an elf, Legolas was known for his keen hearing and eyesight as an archer; having surprised many a friend or foe with his abilities.

Yet, this common healer had done it twice in the matter of an hour.

Legolas felt concern for either explanation; either the healer was no mere healer, or the prince was truly _that_ distracted.

"Let me help you up, my lord." Amondaer said when Legolas did not answer his previous pleas for forgiveness.

The healer bent down and grabbed Legolas's arm to try and pull him to his feet.

"Unhand me!" Legolas shouted as he yanked his arm away from the elf's grasp. Glaring at the dumbfounded healer, Legolas rose to his feet by himself—never breaking eye contact—and asked, "How is it that you have miraculously appeared before me twice now without my hearing it?"

"Oh, I—I," Amondaer fumbled under the prince's fierce glare, but then seemed to settle with a lopsided smile "I am just nimble footed, your highness. Always have been. My father used to get so mad at me for startling him as a child in his shop; I never meant to, but he would just be so intently focused on his work you see, that he'd never hear me walk up behind him." The healer brushed a lock of brown hair away from his face and tucked it behind his ear while stepping closer to the prince. "Please do not worry yourself, it was just by mere accident that you did not hear me. Now,—" he with a soothing tone as he gently placed his hand on Legolas's elbow, "let me help you out of this dismal place and back to the infirmary where you can rest."

Legolas felt the elf's hand rub his arm, beckoning him forward. The healer's touch made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle while his muscles tightened away from the unwanted touch. Something was wrong. Legolas did not trust this elf. Everything had been fine with Amondaer until these last two meetings; something about the healer felt different—more malicious and twisted. But Legolas couldn't exactly pinpoint _why_ he felt that way about the healer suddenly; he hadn't done anything wrong except be annoyingly nice.

The hand on his upper arm squeezed him back, his gaze colliding with Amondaer's amber eyes.

"No." Legolas said shaking off the hand and taking a step back. "I am fine, _alone_. Thank you."

"Are you sure, my lord?" The corners of Amondaer's mouth twitched downwards for a second as his hand reached backout to the prince, landing on the top of Legolas's hip and lower back. "You have been through so much today, let me help you."

Legolas wrenched away from the healer's hand and took another step back until he felt the wall brush his other arm.

Shock and anger swirled within him as he stared at the intrusive healer, "No, Amondaer. I will be leaving here on my own. _Alone_."

"But—"

" _Do not_ —say another word." Legolas snapped as he stepped around the stunned elf and headed back towards the exit.

He did not look back. He did not turn his head to see the shocked healer standing there with mouth agape. He wanted nothing more then the be out of this cold, horrid place.

Quickly, he made his way down the hallway, turning left and then walking past the row of benches and potted plants—looking nowhere but straight ahead.

His stomach dropped and chest slowly began to tightened at the idea of having to go back through the tunnel leading to the infirmary lobby. But he shook the worry away with his determination to get as far away from Amondaer as he could.

Without hesitating, he slammed his hands into the iron doors and pushed them wide open, briefly shedding more light into the closed off tunnel.

Legolas walked so quickly through the narrow tunnel that he barely noticed the closeness of the ceiling and walls before he arrived at the second set of iron doors which he shoved open with the same amount of force as the first.

His eyes squinted several times as he barged through the brightly lit infirmary room. But he did not take the hallway which led to his recovery room, instead, he took the door that lead out of the infirmary and to his regular room across the Halls.

Legolas was done with the infirmary. Done with the healers. Done with this whole entire mess.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Winter's first storm had blown through earlier that morning ahead of seasonal schedule, bringing with it a foot of snow and teeth-chattering winds.

Ebony colored crows flew in to roost on barren tree limbs while thick, grey clouds hovered low in the sky, blocking out the sun's colorful and impending death.

Flowing over the the hilltop through dark, snow-covered woods, an elvish song of mourning spread across the land and river valley. Howling winds and the cracking of naked, gnarled tree branches accompanied the chorus of elves as they made their way up the steep hill to the top.

At the top of the snow-covered hill the majority of Mirkwood's dark-green forests could be seen spreading out like a fan from the Forest River which flowed past the base of the hill.

To the west, a jumble of fir-covered, low-lying hills rippled up from the forest floor, growing in size as it made its way to the east, eventually forming a range nearly one hundred miles in length known as the Mountains of Mirkwood.

Far in the distance past the foothills lay the grand Misty Mountains which divided most of central Middle Earth into east and west.

Beginning at the base of the Mountains of Mirkwood in the far east of the range, a black river known as the Enchanted River slithered northwards under the dense forest canopy, it's dark waters almost completely hidden for most of its length until it flowed into the cleared Forest River valley and connected with the larger river in the east.

Thranduil's Halls lay to the east of the hill, it's vast stone halls hidden safely beneath the forests cover.

Further views from the hilltop were obscured because of the dense snow-filled clouds; the Lord of Rivendell told himself he would make it back to this spot in fairer weather to see more of the breathtaking view.

A hard gust of wind blew in from the west and Elrond turned his back to the view and proceeded to walk back to the foot of the newly made burial mound that looked over Mirkwood and the lands beyond it.

Elrond watched silently as the procession of elves entered the forest clearing and moved about each other as they found their places in a half-moon circle around the burial mound.

Even with leather gloves, Elrond's hands felt like icicles as he held a piece of parchment with the hand-written words he had scribbled from a book in the Hall's library earlier that afternoon in preparation for the funeral.

A shiver ran up his spine as the cold, wet snow melted around his leather boots and seeped through the hand-sewn seams.

Another gust of wind hammered his back, his dark brown hair danced as the wind swirled past him and around the barren clearing.

As spaces filled, the Lord of Rivendell scanned the audience to ensure all were in attendance before he began.

To his right stood King Thranduil, wearing his silvery-steel armor and a shimmering black cloak with maroon velvet underneath. Two steel branches twisted and wove together to create a slender tiara that rested upon his smooth, white-gold hair. At a military funeral such as this, it was customary for the king to don his battle armor.

To the left stood the members of the First Guard; all wearing gold plated battle armor with weapons at their sides. At the end of the funeral it was customary for the fallen soldier's company to chant the warrior's creed while walking up in single file to the grave to say one last goodbye. Though Tauriel was Guard Captain of the entire Mirkwood Guard, the First Guard was her direct company.

Next to the First Guard stood Lord Celeborn with a few of his advisors who had accompanied him from Lothlorien. It was out of respect for the fallen captain that he had stayed an extra day in Thranduil's Halls.

Behind Lord Celeborn were several elves who Elrond presumed were civilians based on their dress, and because he had never seen their faces within Thranduil's Halls. Behind the civilians were other soldiers and palace staff who he had seen but not met, officially.

Towards the center of the circle in the front stood Cestë, Masters Maethanar and Limiel, as well as few healers Elrond had yet to meet. Looking further in the back he noticed the apprentice healer Amondaer standing quietly behind Cestë with eyes downcast.

Earlier in the day Elrond had visited the infirmary to speak with Cestë about why she had missed the obvious dislocation in Legolas's leg.

The female healer had stared at him dumbfounded, for she swore up and down that she had fixed the dislocation during the initial mending process. Elrond questioned her thoroughly, and left the infirmary feeling more confused than when he had entered.

Cestë answered all the questions he threw at her correctly—she knew how to pinpoint dislocations, place them back into socket, and mend. There was no reason he could find that Legolas's leg should have been in the condition it was in when he examined it if she had in fact done the practices she recited to him.

 _If_ she had _actually_ done the mending practices she recited to him.

But, Elrond did not feel any dishonesty within the female healer; she seemed genuinely compassionate and competent—so what was he missing?

A flash of blonde caught his eye as he stared through the crowd immersed in his own thoughts. Re-focusing, Elrond saw Legolas walking in alone through the snow-covered trees into the clearing, quickly finding his place next to his father.

For the occasion the Prince of Mirkwood had donned his own formal military garb consisting of a dark moss-green suede jerkin beneath a fitted leather vest; the decorated neck-piece comprised of dyed leather scales layered on top of one another until coming to a point at his sternum. The same dyed leather made up his three-tiered leather pauldrons that protected his shoulders and upper arms. Covering his forearms were leather vambraces decorated with gold threaded detail work that matched the leather greaves covering his lower legs and boots. A dark forest-green cloak draped itself over his shoulders, tying at the neck and hanging down to his calves.

Once in his spot, Legolas folded his hands behind him and kept his gaze downcast towards the _alfirin_ covered grave that lay freshly made in front of him; his hollow cheeks and nose rosy from the bitter cold winds that assaulted them all.

A twinge of worry pulled at the healer as he watched the Prince of Mirkwood, for Elrond could see the physical signs that something deeply disturbed the young warrior. Legolas's weight had dropped quickly in the last week and it was beginning to become noticeable in his hollowing face and narrowing frame. His normally warm and golden glowing skin had turned a sickly grey, and the purple shadows which settled under his eyes told that he had not been sleeping.

Elrond glanced down at the freshly made mound of earth in front of him. A woven net of white, star-shaped _alfirin_ flowers covered the grave; tied to the woven net were medium-sized rocks that created a natural perimeter between the snow and grave while holding down the net from escaping with the winds.

The elf who lay beneath the flowers and soil should not have been there, Elrond thought to himself. When he had examined her body earlier—before speaking with Cestë—he had found unsettling levels of orc-made poison contaminating her body.

The Lord of Rivendell had never seen a weapon able to administer such toxic quantities of poison before, and if Tauriel had in fact been inflicted with such a potent piece, she should have died within hours, not days.

And once again, Cestë had claimed that the correct cleansing practices had been done immediately, and though the levels initially declined, something seemed to happen internally and they began to rise again and they were unable to regain control. These odd symptoms lead them to believe that her bones had absorbed the poison and then leached it slowly back into her system.

A loud, pronounced cough brought the healer back from his contemplations; glancing over to the source of the interruption he met the ice-blue eyes of the elf-king, silently telling to him it was time to begin.

Elrond nodded to his friend and cleared his throat, allowing a moment for the whispers to quiet.

Unfolding the piece of paper, he began to read the poem which spoke of honor in life and on the battlefield. He had also added a Silvan poem one that he felt might begin mending the wounds this unfortunate situation had cast on so many.

A loud crack followed by a muffled thud resounded from somewhere in the frozen woods. Pausing, Elrond glanced up through the falling snow to a camouflaged scout sitting high above in a barren tree. With hand protecting his eyes, the scout scanned the forest below for the source of the noise. After a few tense moments of everyone holding their breath, the scout signalled they could proceed.

The congregations attention came back to Elrond and he concluded his eulogy, gesturing to Thranduil to take his place at the foot of the grave.

Thranduil nodded his understanding and stepped forward, his steel boots crunching the wet snow beneath them with every step. The two friends clasped hands as they exchanged places, Elrond filling the hole that Thranduil had left beside Legolas.

To Elrond's surprise, a strong scent of alcohol betook his senses when he fell into the elf-king's place. Looking around, he couldn't be sure of the exact source, for there were elves all around him, any one of them could have been the source.

With the South of Mirkwood to his back, Thranduil stared at the grave for a time; his white-gold hair swirling and dancing with the strong winter winds. As he stared in silence in front of the crowd, a look of immense sadness overtook his features that even surprised Elrond, for though his friend felt deeply, he rarely allowed anyone to see him do so.

A shuffling of confused footsteps came from beside the Lord of Rivendell. Turning, he saw that Legolas had apparently been blown too hard by the wind and almost fallen onto the snowy floor—his shuffling boots barely catching and righting him. Elrond tried to make eye contact with the unbalanced prince, but Legolas kept his gaze low as he shook his head and rolled his shoulders back to stand straight and tall as expected.

Thranduil didn't seem to hear or notice his son's fumble, only raising his sky-blue eyes a few moments after, a wet sheen could be seen glimmering within them in the dim dusk light. Steeling his features, the elf-king cleared his throat and began to speak; his voice deep and steady, always confident in his words.

Thranduil spoke of Tauriel's courage and bravery, of her prowess as a warrior and her ability as a leader. He praised her profusely and lamented her passing.

The crowd encircling the grave nodded in agreement and shook their heads in sadness, moved by the king's powerful, heartfelt speech.

To Elrond's confusion, he felt hostility building the air as Thranduil's continued to speak; like the scent of alcohol in the air, he couldn't tell from who it resonated, but he presumed both oddities came from the same source.

With every passing word the emotional cloud grew more and more volatile, leaving Elrond in a heightened state of concern.

Thranduil continued to speak to the crowd about the fallen captain, about how proud he was of her as a warrior and elf, and how he had always been impressed by the strength of her moral compass and her tenacity to follow it even when everything was against her.

"And what of the dwarf?" a voice shouted from the crowd.

Thranduil stopped speaking and scanned the area of the crowd to see who the voice came from.

The static hostility in the air grew so dense that its friction could almost be heard. Elrond saw a flash of blond flit past the corner of his vision.

"You did not seem so thrilled by her heart's choice, then. Did you, Adar?

Legolas stepped forward into the small opening within the half-moon circle. Facing his father like a young lion does eventually to their alpha father, Legolas stepped towards the elf-king with staggered steps. Stopping at the head of his friend's grave, he swayed unsteadily as the blustering winds blew harshly around him.

Thranduil tilted his head, a look of anger flashed in his ice-blue eyes as he watched his son approach.

"You would have sent her to an early grave by your own blade for standing up for what she believed." Legolas accused with a slight slur, the wind and snow roared around them and darkness grew deeper in the grey sky. Legolas raised his voice, "So do not stand here now and give this—this eulogy of lies; it is a disgrace to her memory." Legolas's speech slurred more as the cold air tightened his lips and jaw.

"Legolas," Thranduil's voice deepened in warning, "Watch yourself."

"There is nothing to watch." Legolas shouted back with a small smirk at the edge of his mouth. Sweeping his arms out wide he staggered back a step, "There is nothing you can do to me that has not already been done." his arms then dropped to his sides as his gaze fell to the flower covered grave and his face went slack as his eyes seemed to see through the dirt to what lay inside.

"This is not the time to speak of this. Stop, now."

Lifting his glistening, dull eyes, a calmness seemed to overtake Legolas as he look to his father, "It is entirely the time to speak of this. And I cannot stand here silently as you say things about Tauriel that you do not mean nor honestly believe."

Thranduil's jaw muscle tightened like a tension wire about to snap as his body straightened, his icy gaze locked onto Legolas, "You of all people should know that I do not say what I do not mean, or _believe_." He raised his chin slightly as his eyes narrowed, "Do not think that you are the only one who has lost someone dear to them; though Tauriel and I had our differences, she was like a daughter to me, and my heart aches deeply with her loss."

A strong, howling gust of wind blew in from the west, colliding against the upright bodies upon the hill; the night's darkness finally devouring every last bit of light left in the sky.

Little golden lights began to pop up around the circle as elves began to light their lanterns, the cold gusts of wind attempted to blow the flickering flames out, but the lantern's glass walls protected them.

Thranduil and Legolas stood in the darkness with their unyielding sights locked in battle with one another, each contemplating their next verbal attack.

To Elrond, this fight between father and son did not come as much of a surprise. The only reason these small collisions did not happen more often was because Legolas would usually step down at the last minute to avoid an all out confrontation such as this one. And their tendency to clash idealistically kept them both emotionally at arm's length from each other. But Elrond knew that eventually, Legolas would stop submitting to his father's domineering will and the real fight would happen—and Elrond wasn't so sure how the stubborn elf-king would handle that uprising.

Elrond never doubted his friend's love for his son, but the scars of life had sealed away any emotions that could portray the elf-king as vulnerable or weak; and as a consequence, his only son had grown up in a home where coldness and disapproval were the only signs of caring or love.

Now, Elrond watched the father and son in the fighting ring, eyes locked upon one another as each waited for the other to attack. The crowd watched in awe, for most had never seen the pair speak more than a few sentences—mainly military orders—to each other, let alone have an argument. Only those close to the family knew how deeply strained their relationship was.

Deciding that this particular argument could be had another time, Elrond strode across the icy ground and gently grabbed Legolas's arm, silently suggesting the prince step down.

Legolas yanked his arm away from Elrond's suggestion without ever turning his head.

"You treated her like the dirt beneath your boots." Legolas spat, "For _years_ she trained and worked herself to the bone to impress you and make you proud of her; yet all you did was turned your nose up at her. Nothing she did was ever good enough. Not _once_ did you say the words you say now—the words she so desperately needed to hear you say." the prince's voice cracked and he quickly turned away, regaining control of his emotions.

"Legolas, please." Elrond whispered.

Thranduil stepped down the snow-covered incline and closed the gap between him and Legolas. He towered over his son, and in a low, caustic voice he said, "In your currently inebriated state, you forget the amends that were made during the Battle of Five Armies; for Tauriel and I came to an understanding that day which mended the old wounds that _both_ of us had inflicted. And despite our many differences, Tauriel was like a daughter to me and I treated her as such. You do best to remember that _before_ you go accusing me of lying at the foot of the dead."

Sliding his gaze up to meet his father's, Legolas's upper lip raised in a snarl as he retorted, "Then I guess I will just have _to be six feet in the ground_ as well to know what you truly think of me too, Adar."

A flock of raven's flew from their roost in a nearby tree as a loud smack shook the cold, damp air. A quiet gasp swept through the crowd of onlookers as the elf-king slapped his son across the face.

"That is enough." Elrond hissed as he stepped in between the two elves.

Legolas's head hung to the side as he glared somewhere off the hilltop; a reddening handprint materialized upon his cheek. The prince stood rigid like a stone statue, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists and the tendon in his jaw rippled with repressed rage.

Due to Legolas's intoxicated state, Elrond was unsure whether the prince would be able to walk away now as he usually would, so the Lord of Rivendell readied himself to grab and hold the prince back if he decided to continue the fight physically.

Thranduil's own anger seemed to simmer and cool as his hardened features softened. Turning to Elrond, his voice now calm and collected, "Lord Elrond, please accompany Legolas to the infirmary, I believe he is dehydrated and in need of rest."

Elrond felt Legolas's muscles tense beside him and the healer quickly placed his hands on the prince's shoulders in an attempt to sooth and restrain him.

"I would be happy to." Elrond bowed his head to Thranduil, then turned to the seething prince, "Come now, Legolas." he whispered as he pulled him away from his quietly gloating father.

The two elves turned and faced the slack-jawed crowd who all quickly averted their gazes and acted as if nothing had happened. Master's Maethenar and Limiel stepped apart so that Elrond and Legolas could exit the circle—a gust of wind at their backs helping in their efforts.

A lantern was shoved into Elrond's free hand by someone in the crowd, and he escorted Legolas as they walked back through the icy wilderness to the warmth of the Halls.

 **Author Note:** Well, there you go. I hope this wasn't too bad. Honestly, this chapter was a bitch and I finally just needed to get on with it so that I could continue to other much more fun chapters. I felt that I got it to at least a decent level, I hope ya'll feel the same.  
As for the whole funeral scene, there is very little given about elvish funerals/burial practices besides they most likely did in fact bury them in mound type graves when it was possible. The rest I just felt would possibly be in an elvish funeral.  
 _Thank you to all who have reviewed so far, I love to hear ya'lls thoughts on what is going on or what it makes you feel, it helps me figure out what ya'll are getting from this and how best to get the story across to you. And I just really appreciate you taking the time to read this and review =) ._


	15. Chapter 15

***Author Note: "I finally got another chapter up *does a happy dance*. Thank you all for waiting so patiently, it's just been a busy few weeks. BUT, this chapter came much easier than the last and I hope ya'll will enjoy! I don't want to give anything away, but I feel the need to warn readers that if you don't like dark, uncomfortable stuff, you might want to turn back now. I know I warned that at the beginning of this story, but we're going to hit some dark places before we can get into the light, so just fair warning.  
And as always, huge hugs and thank you's to all who have reviewed, I really do appreciate them! They keep me chugging away at this for sure! =) "**

 **Chapter 15**

Old Forest Road lay half a league south. Running east to west, the old and winding dirt road was the main thoroughfare through Mirkwood Forest—though not many travelled it nowadays.

The Woodland elves chose to patrol the forests from Old Forest Road northward, giving the southern forests to the dark shadow and foul creatures that had slithered in over the years.

It did not come as a surprise to the elven party when they had found intruders in the area so close to the westward exit of the road.

Leaping from moss-covered rock to uprisen tree-root, Legolas and his elven party silently stalked the twenty-five orcs tromping their way north. When his feet met the forest floor, it lay damp and spongy under his leather boots.

These areas of Mirkwood had a tainted smell. Stale air hung beneath the canopy while disease rotted the insides of the twisted and gnarled trees that surrounded them. The pungent smell of wet-rot and soggy, decaying humus made the prince's stomach queasy. Instinctually, the Woodland elf knew it was wrong—he felt it in every fiber of his being, whatever it was that caused the sickness that now seeped in and overtook the once beautiful Greenwood the Great.

Legolas yearned to one day do more for the forest then just kill Giant Spiders and slay orcs that stomped too heavily on it's sore soil. He yearned to heal the tortured trees and earth around him, and make them green and whole once again. And his concern grew each time he visited these areas of the forest, because the sickness was growing; even he could now faintly feel whatever it was that poisoned area.

As the scouting party approached the edge of the treeline, they watched as the orcs halted their march forward—presumably to rest.

This odd behaviour peeked the Prince of Mirkwood's interest—why would orcs travel midmorning? Normally, these creatures of darkness avoided the daylight, prefering to travel at night.

The orcs had stopped in the grasslands that ran along Mirkwood's eastern border. Tall, wispy grasses of green and brown stretched for leagues to the east, eventually meeting the river Carnen, but that was the only noticeable landmark out in the massive sea of grass and rock.

As the orcs settled, some stretched and yawned loudly while others growled and fought with each other. The sound of clanking armor and swords anything but discrete.

The wind blew lazily west, bringing with it the smells of sun-warmed earth and dried grass, as well as the unpleasant odors of ripe orc.

Legolas had ordered a few of the scouts to canvass the surrounding area before they decided on their next move. He knew that gifts rarely came this nicely wrapped.

As he awaited news, Legolas perched upon the thick, arched root of a large beech tree; he placed his palm against the old tree and gently drifted his fingertips across the rough ridges of bark. The connection soothed and centered him as he watched the orcs in the distant field, trying to find any hint or clue as to what they were planning.

The sweet, honey-like fragrance of _lissuin_ tickled his senses and a small smile parted the corners of his mouth, for Legolas knew exactly who came to his side without having to look.

"They're growing bolder." Tauriel whispered. "This is the second orc party sighting in this area, though this one is much closer than the last."

Legolas's brow twitched as he looked at Tauriel; he had not been aware of a previous orc sighting, and it just solidified the strangeness of the situation. He wanted to know why these orcs trekked north, since the only populations that lay in that direction were those of the human kingdom of Dale and the dwarves of Erebor inside the Lonely Mountain—both of which would devastate such a small group of orcs tromping upon their doorstep.

But, all speculations aside, Thranduil's Halls stood to the northwest. And that meant Legolas and his scouts had a duty to protect the Elf-king and his people residing in the forest—a small group of orcs could still kill many.

Legolas turned to Tauriel and whispered, "What do you think draws them?"

Tauriel stood beside him on another tree-root slowly raising her heels up and down like a rolling wave while she watched the orcs.

She turned and looked up at him; concern drew her auburn brows together and her heart-shaped lips parted to speak.

"Ready to report, your highness." a scout whispered confidently behind the prince.

Legolas turned further to look past Tauriel at the elven scout behind her. The scouts name was Ferion, he was of Silvan lineage and one of Tauriel's most competent and stealthy scouts.

"What did you find?" Legolas asked with a nod.

A loud crackling sound rippled through the air and the world around him crumbled. Bright rust colored leaves attached to dark grey trunks shot up from the earth and spread their branches wide, forming the last wall of trees standing between him and the camping orcs.

Gasping at the sudden and unexpected change, Legolas whirled around to find that Tauriel no longer stood at his side, and he no longer stood at the base of the large beech tree.

Quickly, he established his bearings in the new location and found his scouts lined up on either side of him, with Tauriel in the far right side of the line.

She glanced over to him with a confident smile as she silently signalled the go ahead.

Legolas realized he had seen this all before.

Claws of ice clutched his heart in a deathgrip as he remembered what came next.

Turning his gaze frontward, Legolas saw the foul creatures mulling around in the field, appearing completely oblivious to the incoming attack.

 _But they are not_. A voice inside his head yelled. A trap had been laid and they were all diving head first into it.

"Stop!" he ordered as loudly as he could—but nothing came out.

The scouts along with Tauriel moved forward in a unison line, gracefully gliding over the dark moss covered floor towards the field of orcs.

"No!" he shouted, "No! Stop! It is a trap!" His vocal cords vibrated with his effort, but he remained mute.

Legolas watched helplessly as the line of elves approached the clearing.

When his words did not work, he tried to follow them. Protect them.

Lifting his right leg to run forward, he found the limb barely lifted off the ground. Trying the other leg had the same effect. Confusion swirled with his fear. It felt as if he stood in thick, sticky, tar, but upon examining at his lower half, there was nothing.

As with the sudden scene change earlier, he threw understanding aside to try and save his people. Silently groaning from the extreme exertion, he cast all feelings aside and pushed forward, lurching in slow motion through the invisible impediment. His normal nimble agility and quickness was replaced by slow, momentumless movements, but he persisted. He would not let them die. Not again.

Legolas's heart sank when he found he had only covered a yard or two with so much effort.

He turned back and watched in utter horror and hopelessness as the scouts traversed the forest border and sprinted their way into the clearing towards the buried death traps.

"Stop! Please. It is a trap!" he pleaded. A sharp pain burned the back of his throat and he felt sweat gathering on his forehead.

He quickly wiped it away, as he did, his hand swept passed his side and he heard the wooden knock of his bow against arrows. A flicker of hope spread through him. He had his bow and arrows. He could save a few of his people by killing the orcs who would overtake them after the mines exploded.

Drawing his bow, Legolas found he could not gain any momentum to draw the bow completely back. The invisible tar grew thicker around his limbs.

But he would not—could not—give up. Pulling as hard as he could, he finally nocked the arrow into place. The small fire of hope flickered in him again and he let the arrow fly.

Sleek and strong, the arrow did not fly with it's normal speed and force. Instead, it rattled and shook as it crossed the air, only to hit it's mark and pathetically bounce off the back of an orc's head.

The pit of hopelessness yawned wide and threatened to devour him as he watched the arrow fall to the grassy ground—the orc not even taking notice.

Legolas flinched as he heard the first explosion boom from the middle right of the line. Surprised yells and pained shouts burst forth with the dirt and fire and the orcs turn their heads.

Glowing yellow eyes and ear-to-ear grins lined with tiny teeth decorated the orcs bulbous faces.

Another boom erupted from the left. It's deep, monstrous sound rippled into the next explosion that happened seconds later.

The smell of sulphur, earth, and blood filled the stale forest air and Legolas found his breath hitching in quick, shallow breaths as his heart tore every muscle in his chest.

He shut his eyes after one close explosion, his body trembling as he felt the hot earth rain down upon him. When he opened them again he found himself standing in the middle of the fire and chaos of the grasslands.

The smells of smoke and burnt flesh overwhelmed him; he could barely see through the clouds of dark grey smoke billowing across the red soaked field.

Orcs and elves rushed past him locked in battle. He tried to help, but his feet would not obey.

An explosions ripped the earth apart to his left, and through the mounds of dirt and clouds of smoke he saw the elf who made the fatal step shredded from the fire and shrapnel; pieces of his body flying in every direction.

A thud brought his attention to the ground at his feet. A whisper of a groan escaped Legolas's lips as he felt the need to hurl wash over him. Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard and turned away from the still-beating heart that lay pounding frantically at his feet.

A distinct scream came from behind him and he whirled around to see Tauriel through the grey haze. She gripped her side and stumbled forward from a blast.

Legolas's throat tightened painfully and the burning spread down into his stomach when he saw a bright red spreading from her hand through a tear in her leather armor and down her hip.

His friend turned to him with wide, hazel eyes full of fear and pain. He wrenched his feet from the ground, trying with everything he had to get to her. To help her. Save her. But his feet remained stuck to the trembling earth.

He kept his eyes locked on her as she moved through the dust and smoke in a daze. She limped heavily, and her skin quickly paled. Squinting through the flying debris, she searched to find her way through to safety.

Hazel eyes found him again; she called something to him but stumbled and fell to her knees.

Summoning all of his strength, Legolas pulled forward to reach Tauriel. His leg muscles screamed as they were stretched and torn from the earth.

He blew a sigh of relief when he saw Tauriel get back on her feet and continued limping toward him, her eyes never leaving him.

She called to him again, and Legolas strained every sense he had to understand what she yelled to him—but for the life of him he could not make the words out. Tears formed in her eyes as she said it again, but it was hopeless; he couldn't hear her.

The smog grew thicker and began to engulf everything around him. He tried to carry forward to Tauriel through the fog, but the smoke encircled him and dove into his lungs, threatening to suffocate him. He had to go back to the small clearing a few feet behind him. Once in the small clearing the smoke retreated from his body, leaving only a charred burning inside of his throat.

He lost Tauriel in the smoke. He tried to yell for her, but his voice still failed him.

The sounds of orcs and elves fighting faded; the trees of the forest and the sky above drifted away until he stood alone, surrounded by a tunnel of tumultuous swirling smoke.

In the distance he could still hear the clinks of swords and shrieks of the dying. Legolas strained his eyes to see through the dark roaring smoke; he scanned every inch of the wall trying to find a weak point in hopes of seeing a glimpse of Tauriel. The small flickering flame of hope the only thing keeping his rising panic and despair at bay.

Through the dense smoke a blackened shape began to emerge in the distance. At first, it didn't appear to be moving, but as Legolas watched, he realized it ran straight for him. His fingers turned to ice and his breath coagulated in his throat as he could do nothing but watch the black enigma approach him at an inhuman pace.

In an instant the figure shredded the impenetrable wall of smoke. A terrifying face covered with black, oily skin, a snarling mouth filled with small pointed teeth, and small slanted eyes the color of rotting egg-yolks with pinhead pupils overwhelmed his vision.

With a sharp gasp Legolas flew up from his pillow and covered his face from the creature bearing down upon him.

In hard, pounding thuds his heart slammed against his ribcage and he gasped for air. Droplets of sweat covered his forehead and dripped down his neck. Slender strands of long blonde hair clung to him, strangling him as they pinched and pulled against his skin.

He tore the sticky strands away from his body with trembling hands; the air cooling quickly as it made contact with his skin—helping evaporate the lingering panic.

Squinting through salty eyelashes, he realized his vision still lagged from sleep—the walls and furniture left streaming trails of color as his eyes looked around the room.

"I am glad to see you are finally awake, my prince."

An eager, honeyed voice sliced through the muffled pounding clouding his mind, and like the monster in his dreams, something materialized from nothing and laid itself upon his bare shoulder.

Legolas recoiled. His body immediately desired to flee before his mind could catch up. The soft, cool hand against his skin made him physically sick; beneath the hand felt like icy-hot needles puncturing his skin.

He knew that feeling—that touch. Only one person had ever made him feel that unsettled by just their presence.

Turning his head, Legolas's mouth went dry as he saw long, brown hair and haunting amber eyes staring down at him.

Legolas jumped up and to the other side of the bed where Amondaer did not stand, but as he did so an intense, pounding headache suddenly exploded in his skull and he found himself holding the wall for dear life while forcing himself not to hurl all over the floor.

"Are you alright, my lord?" Amondaer asked with concern.

"Fine." Legolas swallowed hard and held one hand to his pounding head while using the other to help him stay balanced.

"What are you doing here? This is not the infirmary." he questioned breathlessly as he shot a glare at the grinning healer.

"You don't remember? Lord Elrond brought you to the infirmary last night in need of rehydration—" Amondaer trailed off, his amber gaze travelling up and down the weakened prince; a smile pulled up one corner of his mouth to show the tip of a red tongue peeking out between his teeth.

All the hairs on his body prickled and he squirmed under the healer's oddly coveting gaze;shifting awkwardly, Legolas moved an arm over his chest to try and hide himself—quickly realizing he had no shirt on, and only a pair of thin cloth pants below.

Seeing the prince's reaction, Amondaer dropped his gaze to the floor. Clearing his throat with a polite cough, he continued, "You were very intoxicated, your highness. So I gave you plenty of fluids, as well as some bread to try and ease any stomach upset you might experience later on. Do you remember that?"

Legolas thought about it for a moment, then muttered, "Mm-hmm. Vaguely."

"Good. I understand how confusing and stressful it can for memories to not be fully intact or not there at all. I am happy to help you fill in the blanks." Amondaer tilted his head and warmly smiled.

The gesture was meant to sooth the prince, but Legolas felt the opposite. A wolf in sheep's clothing was still a wolf.

"But," Amondaer stuttered, "to continue what I was saying previously—after you were sufficiently fed and hydrated, I helped Lord Elrond bring you to your room to sleep and recuperate, since I know how you tired of the infirmary's lodgings."

Nodding his understanding, Legolas gingerly stepped towards his bathroom, which thankfully lay on his side of the bedroom; he was wanting the conversation to end and for the healer to leave.

Amondaer did not appear to understand the prince's silent instruction to exit the conversation and room, instead he stood by the end of the bed like a puppy waiting for it's owner.

Frustration rising, Legolas took a deep breath and said hoarsely, "Why are you here _now_ , in my room. I have no need of a healer for a mere hangover."

Amondaer tipped his head to the side like a confused puppy, then said seriously, "I may have allowed you out of the infirmary, but I still have a duty to ensure your health and safety. Hangover's can cause a lot of discomfort and incoordination; I wanted to ensure you did not fall and hurt yourself or suffer needlessly if your body decided to dispel the contents of your stomach—I have a antiemetic tincture that takes care of that in an instant. Hangovers may not be life threatening, but if not properly managed, they can be very unpleasant and last much longer than needed."

To Legolas's dismay, the healer stepped around the large four poster bed and walked towards him.

"Speaking of hangover symptoms, you do not look well." the healer's amber eyes scanned Legolas up and down again, but this time much more technically, "You're pale, shaky,—sweaty. Not to mention most likely suffering from a bad headache—mhmmm? There is no need to endure such things. Why don't you come take a seat here and let me examine you."

Legolas wanted no such thing.

"I would prefer another healer." he stated sternly.

Amondaer's cheerful face crumbled into a frown; his nostrils flared like those of a dragon's, while amber eyes flickered with fire. In a calm, restrained tone he said, "My lord, have I done something wrong to upset you, or to have you dislike me so?"

Legolas's head throbbed; his mouth felt like a desert and his muscles ached for water and rest. He knew what he felt, but he also doubted it.

Lowering his gaze from the innocent and hurt looking elf standing in wait by his bed, Legolas shook his head and sighed. A part of him felt extremely guilty for damning the elf with no evident reason, while the other part of him screamed to remain intensely vigilant.

The throbbing in his head intensified and he clutched his forehead as he replied, "No. I am just tired—" his brows furrowed—"and confused. There are many blanks in my memory of yesterday. I normally do not drink like that."

"It may take some time to regain some of your memories, while others may never return, your highness. Like I said earlier, you were very intoxicated when Lord Elrond brought you to the infirmary last night."

It was like a dam had suddenly opened up and a flood of images came crashing through his mind.

It had been noisy. Incredibly noisy. While sitting amongst guests in the crowded dining hall, Legolas had sipped on his wine because it calmed his nerves and hadn't been hungry. Two glasses had turned into four, and with that he vaguely remembered Lord Celeborn coming up and speaking with him about something to do with managing grief, and how the emotion changes throughout an elf's eternity, but never truly goes away. If anyone would know about immeasurable loss and grief it would be Lord Celeborn after what happened to Celebrian. But Legolas wasn't entirely sure why the Lord of Lothlorien had been speaking to _him_ about it.

Other guests avoided him; he could hear their hushed whispers of pity as they took turns looking at him from across the room. There had been a few more glasses of wine during that part.

Eventually, the somber atmosphere and desperate need for idle chatter became too much for him. Once tired of the pleasantries and condolences, Legolas snuck away—snatching a decanter of wine from one of the waiter's trays.

 _That was odd_ , he thought to himself, that wasn't like him. But he clearly saw himself grabbing the glass pitcher filled with dark red sloshing liquid and striding out of the dining hall towards the front gate.

The front gate—he had gone outside after leaving the feast. It had all felt too hot and claustrophobic in the Halls, so he had wandered outside the front gate and sat on the ledge overlooking the greenish-blue waters of the Forest River as it rushed it's way past the cavern entrance.

He didn't know how long he had sat out there in the freezing cold, but it was long enough for him to finish the stolen decanter of wine.

The alcohol had kept him warm while he sat there alone on the ice-cold stone ledge, his feet dangling over the gushing blue-green waters of the Forest River. He remembered watching a few red and brown birds on the other side of the embankment picking and pecking at the snow in hopes of finding a worm underneath. Then the wind would gust through, dropping snow from the trees and scaring the little birds who would fly off to somewhere safe—only to return a few minutes later.

After some time of sitting there in silence, basking in the fresh and frigid forest air, a guardsman of the front gate had come out and told him the funeral was about to begin.

Legolas's eyes widened and his hands flew up to his mouth, "The funeral. That was yesterday." Slowly, he turned to Amondaer, "Please, please tell me I did not go to Tauriel's funeral in such a state."

Amondaer stood silently staring at the prince with a pitying look, chewing his lower lip, "I am sorry to inform you that you did, my lord." the healer winced as he continued, "And you may have gotten into a heated argument with his majesty during the proceedings."

"No." Legolas squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, "No, no, no, no." his legs weakened beneath him and he slid down the wall.

Overwhelming memories swarmed him as he sat there in the darkness behind his eyes. Images of his father glaring at him—silently ordering him to stop causing a scene, or Elrond tugging at his arm to leave, or the sound of him yelling something absolutely horrible and wrong to his father. And then, the sharp slap across his face—in front of everyone.

Physical sickness once again rose up within him because of what he had done. His actions were not only humiliating and embarrassing—especially because his friends and subjects had seen him in such a vulgar state, but the fact that it had happened during his dear friends' funeral was unforgivable.

The memories kept replaying in his mind, no matter how hard he tried to turn it off. He ground his palms into his eyes as he clenched his teeth. The images needed to stop for a minute; he wasn't sure how much longer he could bare reliving his shame.

Amondaer walked over to Legolas who stayed crouched against the wall with hands covering his eyes, "My lord, are you alright?"

Legolas didn't answer. It was too much effort to respond. And at the moment, he wasn't alright. He felt as if he would drown in his self-hatred. Of all the things to do, he had to do that. How could Tauriel ever forgive him now after being so despicable and disrespectful.

"My lord," Amondaer whispered gently into Legolas's ear, "Let us get you back to the bed."

The elf's breath felt cool against his ear; Legolas felt impossibly hot. He needed air; fresh, cool air. Opening his eyes, he disregarded Amondaer's outstretched hand and pushed off the wall to stand.

The headache that had thrummed in the background came roaring back with a vengeance and it's painful wrath caught Legolas off guard. Black blobs dotted his vision as it blurred, and he felt as if the world spun around him.

"Ookay." Amondaer said as he caught the prince as he stumbled sideways, "I've got you. Let's get you to the bed."

The blurred and blotchy vision cleared to normal as Amondaer slowly escorted him to the edge of his bed and helped him sit on the tall mattress.

"It's alright, my prince," Amondaer said soothingly, "Just take a deep breath."

Legolas heard a tiny pop and a chalky dust invaded his lungs.

Confused, he turned to Amondaer to question him, but found his vision slowing and his body beginning to feel heavy and dull.

Looking up at Amondaer, an icy cold exploded and spread through his stomach; the shorter male standing beside him now towered over him with glinting eyes and an eager smile.

Everything was slowing down. His mouth felt puffy and slack, his entire body began to feel extremely heavy and loose. Uncontrollable.

Before he lost all control, he had to get away from the healer. He had to call for help, or at least make it to the door.

With more effort then it should have taken, Legolas leapt off the bed, twisting on one foot to avoid Amondaer's attempt to grab his arm. To his surprise, his legs felt like they were filled with sand; between the forward momentum and disabling slowness, he lost his balance and crashed into the wall, dismantling a wooden shelf which held a few books and trinkets; the shelf and its contents came crashing down onto his head.

"My lord," Amondaer said calmly as he walked over to Legolas, "You're being ridiculous. You've just inhaled enough sedative to knock out a horse, you won't be going anywhere for awhile."

The healer knelt down and placed a hand underneath the prince's chin and brought himself close; amber eyes scanning quickly and taking the prince in.

Legolas tried to jerk away from the icy hand, but Amondaer held it firmly.

"Tsk, tsk. Look at this, you're bleeding." the healer chided as he brought up his free hand to touch the open gash. A distant pain flickered near the edge of his hairline when Amondaer touched the wound.

Legolas shook his head heavy back and forth,"Do not touch me!" he yelled, but what came out was mostly incoherent slurring thanks to his jaw and lips feeling thick and numb.

Amondaer ignored the prince's dwindling struggles as he pulled his hand away from the wound. The tip of his index and middle fingers were covered in fresh, shimmering blood, a small droplet dripped down the index finger.

"Now, look at that." Amondaer said mockingly, "Thanks to an awful nightmare, you awoke from your sleep confused and in an absolute panic. Refusing to hear your healers' calming reassurances, you leapt out of bed and tried to run—instead crashing into a wall and knocking a shelf down upon yourself and cutting your head. Still panicking and unresponsive to logic, I had to sedate you for your own good. Does that sound about right, Legolas?"

No longer able to form words, Legolas did his best to convey his disgust and hatred through his eyes—though his eyelids were becoming increasingly difficult to keep open. Darkness had begun creeping into the corners of his vision, and Legolas struggled to keep himself focused on the deranged healer in front of him.

"Yes." Amondaer sighed happily, "That sounds about right. Poor thing," he said tilting his head and staring at the drooping prince, "you're just so _broken_."

The words oddly stung Legolas, though he wasn't sure why.

"And I am the only one who loves all of your little, jagged pieces." Amondaer sat back on his heels and stuck both blood-covered fingers into his mouth; his eyelids fluttered as he inhaled deeply, his lips wrapped tightly around the two fingers.

Legolas outwardly cringed at the sight, but focusing on the healer was becoming increasingly difficult. His eyelids kept closing without his permission, and when he opened them he saw two of everything.

As he watched a doubled-version of Amondaer sucking and licking his fingers, images of an orange-red campfire popping and crackling in a grassy field surrounded by dark figures crunching on bones started overlapping his vision, the walls of his room blurring into grass fields then back into his bedroom walls.

The sedative forced his heart and lungs to slow, but panic still sparked in his dulled nerves; the feelings only intensified when he realized his limbs were so heavy he couldn't move them at all.

Amondaer pulled his fingers out of his mouth—a slimy strand of saliva still attached—and sighed contently, a slight pink flush graced his cheekbones while he stared at the two fingers still held up in front of him.

"You are truly exquisite, my prince. I always knew you would be, but it's entirely different to _actually_ experience it. To taste it; to taste _you_. Your lifeforce, it's incredible. Truly intoxicating." he dropped his hand and focused on the struggling prince with a heavy lidded gaze, "I have wanted you for so long, my prince. If you had just seen me, _noticed me_ , I wouldn't have had to do all of this."

Leaning forward, Amondaer gripped Legolas's lower jaw between his thumb and index finger. The appendages began to squeeze together gently—nicely asking for the prince to open. When all that returned was resistance, the pressure increased—the fingers ground his cheeks against his teeth until he had no choice but to open.

Like an eagle swooping down upon its prey, Amondaer pressed his cold lips firmly against Legolas's.

His lips were cold and wet, like kissing snow. And Legolas couldn't shake him off despite all his efforts. The assaulting lips seemed to fuse and hold to his own.

Slamming his eyes shut, Legolas tried with all his strength to bite down on the snake-like tongue flicking and slithering inside his mouth.

As he focused all of his strength on gaining some control back of his body, Legolas felt something else beneath the kiss; he felt something being drawn out of him and devoured _through_ the kiss.

Cold spread through him and encroaching darkness threatened to pull him under, offering to take him away from everything that was happening.

Amondaer unlocked himself from the deep kiss and shuddered. His tongue skimmed across Legolas's bottom lip, gently nipping the tender flesh before thrusting his tongue back inside.

Legolas was losing this battle and losing consciousness. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. He tried to fight, but nothing obeyed.

His vision blurred, and Amondaer's face began to morph into something black and grotesque.

Whether it an orc or an elf; it was just another monster he couldn't defeat.


	16. Chapter 16

***Author Note: Woohoo! I am back! Super sorry for the delay, but a lot has been going on lately and I also felt these next few chapters were very pivotable, and needed to be reviewed, reviewed, and reviewed. Now, they are done. I am posting two chapters back to back because I know these took forever to get out. Sorry about that! Thank you all for your patience.  
A huge thanks to all who reviewed, ya'll are what keep this story going, I read your reviews over and over again, so THANK YOU!**

 **Chapter 16**

The room's stone-cold stillness was shattered as the Woodland King flew down the long and winding staircase. Like a magnificently furious dragon he glided across the grey stone floor and into the sanctuary of his chambers.

At the elf-king's heels skittered a strained and pallid attendant of Silvan lineage, and following behind him came the Lord of Rivendell, seemingly much more at ease with the current turmoil.

"A drink, _now._ " Thranduil snapped as he came to a sudden stop in the middle of the large sitting room.

"Ofcourse, your majesty." the chestnut haired attendant said quickly with a bow.

The elf-king stood beside a tall, thick pillar near the middle of the room. Several identical pillars with braided carvings winding upwards into the ceiling stood like sentinels in the cavern room belonging to the Elven King. On the far side of the chamber bubbled a hot spring pool in it's natural basin that was large enough to fit ten elves.

Thranduil growled under his breath as his fingers worked the tiny clasps holding his metal vambrace to his forearm. Since he did not wear his armor for actual battle on this occasion, Thranduil had foregone the gauntlets in lieu of black leather gloves, hoping to quicken the disarming—which did not seem to be working.

After several frustrating seconds of trying to work the small buckles, and irritation boiling over at his attendant for not noticing his struggles, Thranduil sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, "Get these wretched things off, then get us drinks." he ordered.

"Yes. Of course, your majesty." the attendant gulped while spinning on his heels to go back to his king from his place at the wine shelf.

Elrond gestured to the anxious attendant to continue his previous task, "I will help you, Thranduil." he said walking towards the enraged dragon exhaling sparks of fire with each breath.

"You never have been fond of steel skin." the Lord of Rivendell said fondly with a quiet smirk. With outstretched arms he approached the dragon, cautiously. Thranduil did not turn to face him fully, but thrust his right arm out for Elrond to work on.

"Yet to be King requires one be made of steel." Thranduil replied flatly, but Elrond glimpsed a small twinkle in his friend's blue eyes.

A twinge of sadness flickered in Elrond's heart at the elf-king's hint of humor, because he remembered when it was not such a rarity for the blonde elf. Thranduil had once been a magnificent, sword-wielding prince with a charismatic personality and quick-witted tongue.

But that elf resided in the past; Elrond swallowed the heartache and focused on working the first set of tediously tiny buckles.

"How long does it take to pour two glasses of wine?" Thranduil chided over his shoulder.

"Alcohol is what lead to this evening's little upset, Thranduil. Do you think it wise to drink right now?" Elrond said without looking up from his task.

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. In a deep, satin voice he replied, "Unlike some, I am able to refrain from overindulging in the crimson drink's bittersweet siren-song."

The sound of breaking glass and a sorrowful cry caught both elves attention. Turning, they spotted the attendant standing over a mess of splattered red wine and shattered glass.

"My—my sincerest apologies, your majesty!" the attendant grabbed the sides of his head, his fingers tangling through his chestnut locks. "I am such a clumsy fool!" he cried in distress.

"Yes. You are. Now, hurry up and bring me a glass of wine." Thranduil said with little concern. Feeling the vambrace loosen on his right arm, he flung the piece of armor onto the floor where it fell with a loud clatter.

He shook his right arm out, relieved to be free of the suffocating piece of metal. Standing rigidly straight, he said nothing, but offered his other arm to Elrond.

"I believe this to be the first occasion where I have seen Legolas inebriated." Elrond said, continuing their previous conversation and ignoring the sounds of the attendant cleaning up his mess.

The elf-king turned his gaze towards a tall window at the foot of the stairs, "He does not normally find it appetizing; rarely does he even have a glass with dinner. But that appears to have changed." blue eyes slid over to his old friend, "It is a sad day when the apple of willpower and decency falls so far from the tree."

Elrond paused at his work on the clasps and slid his gaze up the elf-king's outstretched arm.

"If my memory serves me, you have not always been so impenetrable to such poisons, my friend." Elrond felt the elf-king tense at his jab. The Lord knew better then to poke the dragon too much just yet, so he backed off. "But, I believe this to be only a mere misstep, Thranduil. We have all made these types of foolish mistakes," a mischievous smirk appeared, "some of us more than others. But I do not think it more than that."

"My son does not make those types of foolish mistakes." Thranduil jerked the almost-undone vambrace from Elrond's hands and tossed it to the ground with another loud clang.

"Your majesty." The attendant scurried over and held a glass of wine to the elf-king; he then turned to Elrond, "Your Lordship, your glass awaits you at the table."

"Thank you." Elrond said with a half-smile and bow. The Lord of Rivendell made himself comfortable in one of the two chairs sitting beside a small wood table situated against the wall by the hot spring pool, and took a sip from his drink.

Tilting his blonde head back, Thranduil tossed back the glass of wine and thrust it back into the attendant's hand; a fire still raged in his blue eyes, but the tense lines etched into his youthful face lightened with the wine's help.

"I will be but a moment." Thranduil said to Elrond as he began to make his way up the second flight of winding stairs that lead to his private chambers, the attendant once again quick at his heels.

Elrond sat alone in the sitting chambers for some minutes waiting for Thranduil to re-emerge. He scanned the familiar room. Nothing had changed in a century, at least.

The faint echoes of laughter and merriment which once filled this room haunted the elder elf's ears.

Before she had been taken, this room—like many in the Halls back then, had been filled with laughter and warmth.

Elrond felt the pain in his heart spark again at the distant memories. He swallowed hard and bowed his head as his eyes closed for a moment.

They had all suffered great loss in one way or another, so was the curse of immortality. And they all handled it in different ways. Elrond handled it by helping others, and staying busy more or less. Thranduil handled it by sealing himself away in his cavern halls that much resembled his heart at this point Elrond sadly suspected.

But this recent event had been Legolas's second inconceivable loss. With the Queen he had still been so young. The pain of losing one's mother in such a horribly helpless way made Elrond sick to his heart and fëa for Legolas, and for his own children who had suffered similarly.

The memory of long, auburn hair whipping around a short, muscularly slender Silvan elleth flashed before his mind's eye.

Tauriel. He had met her during one of his annual visits to the Halls. During peacetime, when travel to neighboring ally kingdoms was unnecessary for strategizing purposes, Elrond still tried to visit his friends frequently.

For the Lord of Rivendell liked to travel, and he liked it even better during times of peace when one could take the roads slowly, giving time to enjoy the breathtaking scenery.

He also secretly felt the need to visit Thranduil,l to keep him from isolating himself entirely from the rest of the world. As Greenwood the Great slowly shrank and mutated into Mirkwood, Thranduil had pulled his people northward again and again, and it seemed he repeated this strategy when it came to the world around him and his involvement in it.

Elrond worried about his friend's withdrawal and attempts towards complete isolation. To remain balanced and centered, one needed outside influences to bring new ideas and change to the table; with isolation comes stagnation, which inhibits progress and open-mindedness.

And over the years, Elrond had witnessed Thranduil's withdrawal and the closing-off of his mind to new ideas and progressive change.

But, Thranduil always seemed excited—though he played it off as indifferent—for Elrond's visits. And the first time Elrond met Tauriel had been no different.

Though reclusive, Thranduil did write regularly. And he had previously written to Elrond about the young Silvan elleth he had taken under his wing after her parents had been murdered by orcs.

Tauriel had been young, no more than four-hundred years old when they first met. Beautiful as she was, her inner beauty and the strength she radiated from within was what caught Elrond's attention.

Elrond distinctly remembered her interventionist and idealistic views springing to life, and fiercely clashing with Thranduil's isolationist philosophies and protective tendencies when the tragic news about Dale and Erebor's destruction by the the dragon Smaug had come the eve of Elrond's arrival for that visit.

They had had a small and intimate dinner that evening with only Thranduil, Legolas, Tauriel, and Elrond in attendance. Elrond had travelled without Elladan and Elrohir for some reason he could no longer remember. But, after meeting Tauriel, he had been secretly grateful to be spared from his sons almost certain attraction to her, and the ostentatious plays to impress her that would have followed.

But Elrond clearly remembered Legolas's quiet enthusiasm for the elleth's presence. Being the Prince of the Woodland Realm left Legolas with as many friends and companions as he could want. But, they always carried some level of threat for what their true intentions for friendship were. Tauriel had been different. Having already been taken under the elf-king's wing, she had no need for power, fame, or money. She would gain no steps in status by befriending Legolas, nor did she carry any alliances with a potential courtship and marriage. All she wanted was true, unadulterated friendship with the Woodland Prince, and he gave that to her wholeheartedly.

Elrond remembered feeling surprised and slightly heartsick by the silent joy beaming from Legolas while he sat next to Tauriel at the dinner table. Because while Elrond had felt immense happiness for the young prince and his new friendship, it had also made him realize how tragically alone Legolas must have felt all those years before.

And then the news of Dale and Erebor had come in via a panting and ragged looking scout. He delivered the news quietly to the elf-king, but in the attentive silence they had all eavesdropped.

Thranduil, in typical Thranduil-fashion, had remained expressionless through the entire message and then shooed the scout away with the flick of his wrist and continued with his meal.

The other three had remained silent for several minutes, waiting to see what Thranduil planned to do. Legolas and Elrond knew better then to push the elf-king into action, but Tauriel felt differently.

She had broken the silence by asking him what he planned to do. She volunteered to help gather and send food and supplies to the needy, and explained how they should gather soldiers to help fight the dragon and run him out of the mountain.

But Thranduil had cut her off with the raising of his right hand. He explained to her that there was nothing to be done. Dale had been destroyed, and from what the report said no dwarf made it out of Erebor alive.

The dragon still circled the area, seeming to purge the mountain by fire and claim it as his new home. Marching on the mountain would not bring back the townsfolk of Dale nor the dwarves of Erebor, and most likely would lead to enraging the dragon by their presence and leading to needless casualties of their own. So no, they would not be sending troops or aid to the Lonely Mountain.

And to Elrond's surprise, Tauriel had argued with her king. Her youth made her quick to anger at injustice, and she tried her best to convince the war-worn elf-king to do something. But Thranduil, who had always had his own quick temper, had quickly put Tauriel in her place.

Legolas had remained silent through it all, like a child whose parents fought and bickered constantly. He knew there to be little chance of convincing his father, and being slightly older and trained to calculate risk and strategize battles, he realized that the call his father was making, though unfair, was the safest and most practical decision for the good of their people.

But Tauriel had a deep-seeded and pure sense of justice and she stormed out of the room when the elf-king had called her young and foolish.

By that point Elrond had grown very fond of the Silvan elleth. She was good for Thranduil's stagnant world, and she was good for Legolas by showing him what it meant to stand up for one's own beliefs..

A crash came from the stairs and Elrond turned to see the attendant fly down the stairs, hit the corner of the wall, bounce off and fall onto his back at the foot of the stairs.

"Are you alright?" Elrond asked as he stood to help the attendant where he lay with dazed eyes and gaping mouth.

"I understand now why you are a squire and not a soldier." Thranduil said as he came down the stairs wearing a silver robe with a shimmer of forest green. Stepping over the splayed out attendant, a pair of black leggings and riders boots peeked out from beneath the floor-length robe.

The attendant's eyes cleared as he heard the disapproval in his king's tone and quickly found his footing.

"My sincerest apologies, your majesty." he said, voice wavering.

"Yes." Thranduil said with a flippant hand gesture, "You may leave."

"Ofcourse, your majesty." he said with another bow before bolting to the staircase leading out.

" _Do_ watch your step." the elf-king shouted as the attendant's heels disappeared up the stairs.

Elrond caught the mischievous smile that flashed across his friend's features at the thought of the attendant's hopeless clumsiness.

Once the attendant's footsteps could no longer be heard, Thranduil turned and sat down in the empty chair next to Elrond.

"Now that I am not weighted down by steel and cloth, where were we?" he said as he took a sip from his refilled glass.

"We were speaking of Legolas."

Blue eyes that had seemed quieter suddenly sharpened and he sternly placed the glass back down on the table.

"It is done." the elf-king turned away from his friend, "It is done and Legolas will be punished accordingly. Let us speak of something else."

Elrond turned to Thranduil, "What do you intend to do?"

The elf-king's jaw muscle tightened at the Lord's prodding. The corners of his mouth twitched and he turned and looked Elrond directly in the eyes, "I intend to speak with him privately, what happens after that is up to him."

"I implore you, be merciful. " Elrond requested with a sincere look, "He has suffered greatly."

"As have we all. His errors in judgment and character have been great recently, and I will take those into consideration." He stood up and walked over to the liquor shelf in an alcove by the stairs and brought the full decatur to the table where he topped off both their drinks.

"The disastrous mission, along with his capture are things I was willing to be lenient with. But, I do not appreciate his continued inability to function properly or productively everyday since. He speaks out of turn, he is argumentative, reactive, and now he goes and pulls _this—this_ sordid and disgraceful behaviour in front of the public at the Guard Captain's funeral whose blood is on his hands." Thranduil's speech had sped up and he took a moment to reel himself back in. With a deep breath, he concluded, "It would appear Legolas runs an all out race, rather then suffering a mere misstep."

"And you have never made a mistake, Thranduil?" Elrond asked in a disapproving tone, for he could quickly think of several instances that involved drinking and young elleths in the second age when Thranduil himself was a prince. As much as the elf-king liked to forget that elf, Elrond still remembered the young, dashing, charismatic and spirited Son of Oropher who could also have been described as argumentative, rash, and reactive.

When he did not receive a response, Elrond continued, "Legolas has always been an praiseworthy son and prince to your kingdom. Be glad you were not blessed with troublesome terror twins such as I." he said with a fond smile, but when Thranduil did not seem amused, Elrond returned to a more solemn expression and tone.

"Honestly, old friend. Legolas has always been a good child, and to this day he exemplifies the qualities needed to be a strong, kind, and compassionate ruler." Elrond tilted his head and raised a brow. "Do you not think you judge him too harshly for this? You're expectations for him have always been high; maybe it is time for some understanding and leniency, seeing as what he has been through as of late." Elrond braced himself for the tirade of words that would follow for his honesty.

But the tirade did not come. Instead, Thranduil drank from his glass and stared straight ahead at the floor in front of him, "Compared to my father, I have been entirely too lenient in my parenting and expectations." he relaxed in his chair and crossed one leg over the other loosely.

"But, Thran—"

"We are of a great and noble line of elves who are not limited by mediocrity as so many others in Middle Earth." Thranduil said arrogantly, "Legolas has always met and exceeded my expectations for him, and that is what makes him the exceptional warrior and leader he is today. He understands he has a name and lineage to uphold, and that anything less than exceptional is unacceptable."

Elrond's eyes narrowed and his right eyebrow twitched, "It does not the family name or line any good if the child forced to bear these heavy expectations is crushed beneath them."

The elf-king flinched slightly at the thought, but steeled his features once more; lifting his chin, his blue eyes widened and black pupils constricted, "There will be consequences for his actions, Elrond _._ I will not be disrespected and humiliated so in front of my people; they must be shown that I do not allow this disobedience—from _anyone_."

Elrond cleared his throat, "I understand you feel slighted, Thranduil. But instead of punishment, perhaps you should try and understand why he is acting so suddenly out of character."

The fire swirled to life again in the elf-king's eyes and he slammed a fist down onto the table between them, "And what of me, Elrond? Am I to lead a kingdom of order and integrity while allowing my own blood to disrespect and embarrass me?"

Elrond bolted up from his seat and glared down at the blond elf, "Stop thinking about yourself and your wounded pride for one minute and see! _You_ have not just witnessed your entire party slaughtered in front of your very eyes. _You_ have not had to sit and listen to orcs crunching upon your comrades bones. _You_ have not just lost the closest thing to your heart as he has—again." he sucked in a breath and stepped back, surprised by his own anger boiling over at his friend's selfish obstinateness.

Thranduil pushed himself out of the chair and strode over to the hot spring pool, where he stood at the edge and glared into it's blue waters. Shoulders straightening, he turned his head and said over his shoulder cooly, "We have all lost things precious to us. It is not an excuse. I have an image to uphold and a kingdom to run. Legolas has always known the risks of being a soldier, as have I."

Elrond ignored the elf-king's retreat to the water's edge and instead followed him.

Standing next to the taller elf, the Lord of Rivendell tried once more to persuade his friend to see past himself.

"Do not let your own wounds blind you, Thranduil. Legolas does not act this way for no reason. He is _suffering_. And I fear he suffers very much like Celebrían."

The dragon's threatening presence flickered out and Thranduil's tense and rigid body softened at the mention of the Lord's wife.

Thranduil slowly turned to Elrond with a haunted look and slack expression. Unexpectedly, he reached out and took his friends hands, "My apologies, I did not mean to bring her up." he said in a deep, sincere tone.

Elrond gently squeezed their hands as he fervently said, "You have lost as I have lost. But, I do not want you to lose your son too. Losing one loved-one is enough for a lifetime." Elrond's voice wavered and his eyebrows rose as he looked into Thranduil's eyes, "I know you were not given the chance to save your Queen, your heart. But I _was_ given that chance, and I squandered it because I did not read the signs. I did not know. I did not see past the confusion and hurt of her actions." Elrond bowed his head and swallowed the lump growing in his throat. Raising his head, he said, "I was too late for Celebrían, but we may not be too late for Legolas."

"I do not understand, you will see Celebrían again." Thranduil said, tilting his head in confusion.

Those words felt like a knife being driven into Elrond's chest. Tears threatened to fall and his brows pinched together to hold back the flood. Shaking his head, he dropped his gaze, unable to look at Thranduil as he said, "That path is clouded, and I am unsure of what lies ahead." Elrond's throat burned and his chest felt like white-hot ropes wrapped around him.

Thranduil's forehead wrinkled as his eyes darted back and forth, scanning his friend to understand better what he meant.

"What do you mean? Lady Celebrían sailed. Do you not plan to sail west one day to be with her again?"

Elrond's eyelids burned as he stared up at his friend's wide eyes. Taking a deep breath, Elrond pushed the pain and heartache back beneath the surface and said, "Celebrían did not sail to the Undying Lands." saying the words made the lump rise in his throat, threatening to stop him, but he swallowed again and continued, "Celebrían did not sail as I told everyone she did. I did not get her there in time." he was stalling. For some reason his mind kept forcing him to beat-around-the-bush rather then just speak the truth. He clenched his teeth and pushed himself to say the words he did not want to say. Looking at Thranduil, Elrond's voice burned his throat as he said breathlessly, "She took her own life."

The hushed words seemed to echo in the stone room's stunned silence. Even the howling winds which normally hummed in the background seemed to stop at the Lord's confession.

Thranduil's mouth fell open as he stared speechlessly at his friend. After several seconds, Thranduil blinked slowly several times as he glanced Elrond up and down.

"It—It cannot be possible. I do not understand."

"She was sick, Thranduil. And I did not see the signs until she was already too far gone. I did not know how to help back then. We planned for her to sail, because we did not know what else to do," he frowned, "but I can only guess that the darkness seemed impenetrable; I found her in the gardens with her own blade through—" his chest tightened and his throat felt raw— "through her heart."

Elrond looked away as the memory surfaced from the lock box in his mind. But he needed to continue. It was time to tell his old friend the truth of what happened to the Lady of Rivendell and Lothlorien.

"I tried to revive her. But her fëa had already gone." Elrond paused again.

Thranduil gently squeezed Elrond's trembling hands to lend him whatever strength he had.

Elrond sighed, "At the time, I was at a loss for what to do. I had never experienced anything like it before. And I am unsure of what happens to those who take their own life, since it is so rare.

"But, at the time, I did the only thing I could think of—I reached out to her parents; in part to tell them the devastating news, and in part for council."

Pausing for a moment, Elrond took another deep breath as he recalled, "The Lady Galadriel was already deeply concerned, and felt something was amiss, my message only solidified her fears.

"I asked for their council on how to proceed, for I was lost." Elrond's brows furrowed, "The pain—the pain of seeing her there, taken by her own hand—that is a pain of excruciating depths. To know that the one you love so dearly, hurt so deeply that they felt their only means of salvation from that pain was through precipitous death, is a ruinous realisation."

Elrond dropped his head, "I must say that in those first early minutes, I wanted to go with her. Follow her." Elrond lifted his head and looked back into his friend's now glistening blue eyes, "The idea of continuing in this world without her seemed an impossible task. And not knowing whether she would be allowed to leave the Halls of Mandos, or even be allowed to enter Valinor, I—I was not sure I had the strength to carry on without her by my side. I know you understand me when I say that."

Thranduil quickly nodded his blonde head in agreement. His fair skin had paled, and small, faint splotches of redness appeared around his eyes as his friend spoke of similarly painful histories.

"I had to tell the children—it was the hardest thing I have ever had to do or witness, second only to finding Celebrían." Elrond sighed again as he cast his mind back to that day, "Once the initial shock and horror faded, we as a family decided to keep her suicide a secret. There are few others who know the truth, mainly the members of the White Council and a few in my inner circle who helped us with the secret burial and spreading the announcement of her sudden sailing."

Thranduil again slowly nodded in remembrance of receiving such a letter.

"We kept this secret because we did not want to befoul her memory. Suicide is harshly judged and changes the memory of the person. We did not want that. We want people to remember Celebrían for who she was, not how she died. We want them to remember the beautiful and compassionate, spirited and light-filled Lady of Lothlorien and Imlandris that she was.

"Of coarse. She was magnificent." Thranduil whispered with a gravelly voice.

Elrond smiled gratefully, "The reason I speak of this now, is that I am seeing similar signs in Legolas that I saw in Celebrían when she was first rescued from her capture."

Thranduil's head quickly drew back and his glazed eyes sharpened, "How so do you mean?"

"Everything you described earlier." Elrond released their hands and took a step back and made his way back to the wine. "Legolas has been acting unlike himself since he was rescued. He seems aggravated, reactive, argumentative. I personally have witnessed the lapses in his ability to know reality from memory."

Elrond grabbed both glasses of wine and walked them back over to where Thranduil stood watching the dark haired elf's every move. Elrond handed the elf-king his glass, "And most likely, he is unable to sleep without being haunted by the memories in his dreams."

Thranduil took the glass from Elrond, his youthful face appeared drawn and pale; his expression lay slack, but his eyes told of great sadness of this new found understanding. Swallowing hard, his dark brows drew upwards and he said in a raspy whisper, "It would seem I am now the one who is lost. I do not know how to save my son from a threat I cannot see."

Elrond squeezed Thranduil's shoulder tightly, "You are not in this alone. I have decided to stay awhile and offer my help. I am sending Elladan and Elrohir back to Imladris tomorrow to carry out my business back home."

A momentary look of relief flashed across the elf-king's face, before the darkness crept back in.

"How far gone is he?" he quietly asked Elrond, "My son was not out there on that hilltop this evening; I have never seen that elf before, and I do not know what to do with this stranger."

Elrond nodded, "I felt the same way with Celebrìan, but I promise you, it is still your son, Thranduil. Hold on to that and never forget that he is in there.

"He is stricken with an illness. He is only trying to remedy himself in anyway he can." Elrond tilted his head, his expression sympathetic to his mention of the prince's silent struggles.

"Elves do not suffer from disease, how can he be sick?" Thranduil questioned.

Elrond let go of Thranduil's shoulder and faced the waters' glimmering surface, "Immune to external disease, yes. But we are not immune to ailments of the mind and soul—if anything we are more susceptible than humans or dwarves in that regard."

The Lord of Rivendell drained the last drops of wine from his glass and then continued, "I believe his recent experiences of capture and torture, compounded by Tauriel's death, have created a type of plague inside of him that he struggles to fight on his own.

"From what Celebrían explained to me, it was as if her mind and fëa had never been freed from her captivity. Her mind would replay the horrible experiences back to her over and over, as if she was still stuck there. She would go about her day and something would cause the memories to materialize before her eyes, causing her immense pain and distress, as you can imagine." Elrond's face darkened at the memory, "By the time she finally came to me with this, she had already been enduring the memories for some time and she was no longer able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Her light had already begun to fade, being replaced with despair and anguish."

The furrows in his brow deepened and his gaze lowered, "Several times she spoke of how she did not feel she connected to this world any longer, how she felt her link to this reality had been severed, and that she could not imagine continuing to live that way. I did my best to understand, though honestly I did not fully comprehend the magnitude of suffering that disconnection placed on her, nor did I offer her the metaphorical rope she needed to link her back to this world. But, it is what drove us to make arrangements for her to sail, we did not know what else to do." Elrond's voice wavered and he paused to take a breath.

"I believe deep down, she had already lost hope. Lost hope that she would ever be free of the tormenting memories, or be able to feel that primal connection to the world and her people ever again. The thread of hope she clung to was the possibility that she could find solace in a deep quiet that only one's own hands can achieve." The corners of his frown twitched as he stared through the floor. "For being a healer to so many, I am still haunted by the fact I was unable to save my love, the mother of my children, and my best friend, from herself."

Thranduil stared wide-eyed at his friend, "My deepest sympathies, my friend. I did not know." Straightening himself, he turned and watched the rippling waters of the hot spring.

Several silent seconds passed as both elves watched the waters, before Thranduil turned his head and said, "But know this, you do not share in this pain alone. Though our living nightmares may differ, I too struggle to forgive myself for not being able to—to." Thranduil's voice scratched before his lips clamped down on the last words. Instead of finishing, he faced back to look into the turquoise colored waters.

But Elrond understood what the elf-king couldn't say. He continued, "We kept her struggles quiet for fear of rumors and malicious remarks from those who did not understand."

"Certainly." Thranduil agreed.

Elrond turned from the waters and looked at Thranduil, "Elrohir and Elladan came to me after the meeting with the White Council. Though they do not know the details of Legolas's recent capture, they told me they feared their friend suffered much like their mother."

The elf-king sucked in a breath of air and turned to meet the Lord's gaze.

"What did Legolas tell them?"

"It was not what he said, for they did not speak long with Legolas that evening. But the memory of their mother's suffering is burnt deeply into their minds, the small details that seemed so minute at the time. The small cues that beneath the stoic surface everything was not well. They said they saw the same pain and fear in his eyes that they witnessed in their mother. It was shocking enough to them that they felt compelled to tell me."

Thranduil's brow wrinkled as he nibbled his lower lip. Slowly nodding his head as he continued to process all of the information he had been given, he replied with only, "I see."

Elrond saw the blonde elf struggling with everything he had been told; it did not surprise Elrond in the least. He simply felt relieved that the normally egotistical and judgmental elf had opened himself up to their conversation at all.

For this new information regarding the safety of his own son—the last thing he truly held dear to his heart, put the elf-king in a terrifying position. To secure his son's well-being meant opening up the hornet's nest of emotions and feelings he had sealed away within himself long ago, and with that unsealing came the ever-looming threat of possibly succumbing to his own repressed pain and memories while attempting to save his son.

But to retreat away from the problem and ignore it meant possibly losing the last thread holding him firmly to this world; without Legolas, Thranduil would likely fade so far into the shadows of the earth as to never resurface. Elrond could only hope his friend would conquer his own painful memories to save his son.

After several silent moments, Thranduil turned and said, "What must I do?"

Elrond had taken a seat in his chair, again. Leaning back, he took a deep breath and shook his head, "The mind is not as simple to heal as the body—with something like a tincture or tourniquet. Much depends on the individual and their ability to confront and process through the memories to eventually _heal_ the wounds in their mind. It is not an easy task. And—" he said with a quick glance at Thranduil— "that is the word to understand: healed. Not cured. Because curing means to eliminate all evidence of the disease, and that is not how this works. There is no cure for trauma experienced. The mind and fëa are never truly _cured_ , but they can be healed and made whole once again so that all that is left is a faint scar and a distant memory."

Thranduil took a seat beside his friend and asked, "How is it that certain elves succumb to such an illness while others do not?"

Elrond tilted his head and clicked his tongue, "The mind works in mysterious ways, and sometimes it appears to get stuck. Some stick harder than others. That is why healing is based so heavily on the individual.

"Think of it like a faulty floodgate." Elrond said gesturing with his right hand, "This faulty floodgate keeps unlatching and letting water out, causing floods and disaster, but the soldier who keeps the floodgate cannot find the solution to stop the gate from malfunctioning.

"The townsfolk blame the soldier for the floods and disasters that are occuring; saying he is responsible for the floodgate and they do not understand why he cannot fix it."

"So this poor soldier, he tries and tries to fix the floodgate. He tries numerous tactics, but all fail when the rains pour down and the floodgate unlatches, again. The soldier despairs, because no matter how hard he tries, he can not find a way to repair the floodgate.

"But then, a friend from the town appears one day and offers to help. At first the soldier is hesitant to accept his friends help because he feels this is his job to figure out, but his friend eventually convinces him to let him help.

"For weeks the friend works alongside the soldier, lending an extra pair of hands that allows the soldier to get a better look at all sides of the massive floodgate with all it's gears and joints.

"After scouring every inch of the damaged floodgate, the soldier is _finally_ able to see that near the water's edge, a small twig has been caught in the open-close mechanism, it's a very small branch in the grand scheme of things, but it still causes this devastating problem.

"So, the soldier must remove it. But," Elrond raised his index finger, "he cannot do it alone, for the branch is stuck near the roaring rapids, and without assistance he will surely drown trying to get to it.

"That is where his friend steps in, and offers to help the soldier repel down to the twig by holding him with a rope, while the friend stands at the top of the floodgate and acts as the counter weight, ready to pull the soldier up if he needs help.

"Working together, the soldier and his friend are finally able to remove that problematic twig so that the gate can finally function normally and the soldier can once again be accepted into the town and continue on with his life."

Thranduil lifted a brow and chewed his inner lip as he looked at Elrond. "Why do the townsfolk not just get a new soldier who can do better job?"

Elrond's hand flew up to his face and he dragged it downwards. With a audible sigh he continued, "The twig is representative of the trauma an individual has experienced. Some twigs get stuck, while others pass through the floodgate just fine. And the floodgate symbolizes the mind and its ability to compartmentalize experiences, good and bad. The experienced trauma—or twig—is what 'jams' the floodgate door of the mind. As long as that trauma is undealt with, it will keep flooding the mind with memories that would normally stay in their respective places—as experiences in the past, behind a closed floodgate.

"But when that little stick of trauma jams the closing mechanism, the memories or emotions tied to the event keep flooding out and drowning the individual; making them feel as if they are perpetually stuck in the traumatic event."

"So you are saying that Legolas experiences this—" Thranduil's brows pinched together at the thought— "this flood of memories of his capture, regularly?" a twinge of concern and surprise in his deep voice.

"Or the emotional states associated with it, yes. It would appear so." Elrond said, relieved that the elf-king seemed to vaguely understand what he had been trying to get through his thick blonde head. "Legolas's actions as of late align with someone suffering from post-traumatic stress. The changes in behaviour indicate his struggles with processing the experience; he appears to be trying to suppress and avoid the memories because they send him reeling back to the painful experience.

"He most likely blames himself for everything that lead up to and happened during the mission and capture. The heavy drinking that is so uncharacteristic of him was most likely an attempt to suppress his guilt and other feelings—unfortunately, alcohol is rarely the healer we want it to be."

Thranduil's shoulders rounded and he slumped back in his chair, his eyes staring through the grey stone floor in front of them.

After a few long seconds, Thranduil shifted his outstretched legs and turned to Elrond, "So, if I am to understand your odd and complicated analogy, you are saying we must help him find the twig to close the gate."

"Yes, that is exactly what I am saying." Elrond said with a lopsided grin, "Once morning comes, let us go to him and tell him we plan to help him through this."

For the first time in what felt like over a century, Elrond saw the elf-king smile. Though only a small crescent, it lightened the room like the sun lightens the sky at dawn.

*Author Note: Alright, I know I went off Celebrían's canon story here, but I didn't feel it would be out of the question given what she went through. I myself suffer from PTSD and I guess this story is partly my way of working through some of it, so my apologies if I don't always make sense when discussing it—I write what I myself have experienced, along with the broader range symptoms and experiences of sufferers of PTSD. Aside from that, I hope ya'll liked this chapter, let me know what you think 3


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Floating deep below in black and murky waters, Legolas found himself fighting to swim to the surface.

Jutting his arms upwards, he kicked his legs through the dense water, each stroke moved him a few inches towards the small, blurry light he saw glimmering high above him.

His chest began to ache as he held tightly to the air in his lungs. He knew he needed to get closer to the surface before he could release anymore air.

The waters beneath him were bottomless. He turned his head right then left, looking for anything that could help him swim upwards, but only moss green waters that faded into an ink-black beyond surrounded him.

Anything could be out there, he thought to himself; just beyond the darkness, watching him. Waiting for him to succumb to lack of oxygen, or just waiting for the perfect moment.

Legolas shook the disturbing thoughts and images from his mind and focused on swimming upwards towards that little,wavering light he saw.

With every stroke and kick, he moved closer to the light. By this point his lungs were screaming for him to breathe, and his mind strained to remain focused on the light and not the painful pressure building in his chest. But many fights and battles had taught him how to control his body's instinctual panic, and to keep calm and focused to survive. So he set his mind to moving up, because he refused to die down here.

Something brushed against his leg. His attention pulled away from the light as he looked down—brushing away long, blonde strands of hair floating across his vision—but only a bottomless darkness stared back at him.

He kicked away from the gaping void and ignored his nerves as they screamed at him that something else swam nearby.

The surface lay just above him. The rippling waves made the bright light dance, and he felt the current jigging him side to side. A few bubbles past his eyes as he let out a small amount of air, to the relief of his aching lungs.

Something grabbed his leg. He felt cool, waxy skin wrap around his lower leg. Beneath the leathery cover were strong bones curling around his ankle.

It jerked him down. To Legolas's despair, the light moved a few inches further away from him.

Anger filled him more than fear, for he had been so close to the surface, and whatever it was that grabbed him had taken the sweet relief of air away from him. Fire fueled his muscles as he glared down to fight whatever held him.

But that all quickly changed, and a yell rushed from his core and slammed against his throat as it tried to release itself from his body.

Because what he saw holding him made his skin crawl and his stomach go cold.

Legolas caught himself from shouting at the last moment by slamming his hand over his mouth' he would not lose his last precious breaths of oxygen because of a foolish reaction. He clenched down hard and tightened his lips, forcing the air back down into his shrieking lungs.

From the darkness below rose a pallid and rotted, grey-toned arm jutting out from the black depths. It's body remained hidden in the clouded waters, but Legolas felt the weight of a body hanging from the arm.

He felt as each bony, knotted finger clamped down and wrapped itself around his ankle with an iron grip.

Legolas kicked. He kicked again; the hand remained locked.

He struggled as his heart slammed against his tight, sore sternum and against his lungs that seemed to fill his entire chest cavity while fighting for air.

He kicked against the hand, he rammed the heel of his foot down his shin to hit the top of the hand.

The bones crunched against his bare heel. He kicked again, and again.

The fingers tightened painfully around his ankle, but he kept trying to pry it off.

Finally, he felt the hand release after one strong kick. Just as he felt the hand loosen, something else grabbed his right bicep and yanked him towards the wall of darkness to his right.

The waters seemed to be getting darker as he tore his arm away from the new hand. A tangle of blonde hair floating around his face obscured his vision, but he could see this hand had black, lesioned skin with yellow, chipped fingernails. The dim light above exposed several pale and faded scars criss crossing across the top of the bulging forearm.

This hand did not have the same iron-type grip the other had, but it had mass. The palm covered most of his upper arm, and it's fingers easily overlapped it's fat thumb.

It reminded him of an orc's hand, large and grotesque. He did not see an orc attached to the arm, but he felt it lurking there just beyond in the murky shadows.

Legolas used the palm of his left hand to jab the hand as hard as he could. But with the waters killing his propulsion, the hand didn't seem to even flinch at his attacks.

He dug his thumb under the calloused palm, trying to wrench the hand open. It didn't move. He wasn't strong enough. He twisted and rolled his body, trying to use his body weight to wretch the hand loose.

After several rolls and twists, the hand let loose—much to his relief and surprise.

Once free, Legolas reached and pulled frantically towards the light—he just needed to reach the surface.

Two more hands grabbed him. This time he did not turn to look, he just kicked and fought as hard as he could while maintaining his upward momentum.

With every inch gained, another hand landed on his person. Eventually, his lungs could no longer hold his breath, and so he exhaled with an angry, muffled yell.

As the air rushed out of his lungs in a mass of bubbles, he dove his flattened fingers through the shrinking layers of water standing between him and the light. He was so close he could feel the thinning of the water around his fingers.

The hands clung to his limbs, scratching and clawing his skin, trying to pull him down into the dark depths below. But Legolas could see—he could feel—the air and warmth of the light just beyond his fingertips.

Reaching as far as he could, he felt the water parting around his fingers, and the light of hope flickered within him. Just as the waters parted and the cold air prickled his hand, a hand holding firm to his left ankle yanked down, hard.

The water rushed in, collapsing the hole his hand had created. He had felt the cool air around his wet hand. He had almost emerged. Legolas heard himself cry out as he saw the water's surface close in again.

Several hands took the opportunity to pull, yank, and drag him downwards.

But he would not go easily. Legolas fought with everything he had; kicking, squirming, grabbing and elbowing his way through the sea of hands and back towards the surface.

But the hands were determined to take him down; with every kick and stroke he made, they pulled more, clawed harder.

Legolas fought with everything he had for what felt like hours. He fought until his lungs could no longer fuel his muscles, and his muscles could no longer propel him forward.

He slowly began to still, and the hands pulled him down, down to a watery grave. Legolas stared hopelessly as the light moved farther and farther away from him. Little bubbles holding the last bits of oxygen he had floated before his closing eyes, upwards to the surface he could not reach.

The mossy-green and black of the waters began to mix and blur before his eyes, but then he heard something.

"Legolas."

A voice called to him. It's deep, satin sound was muffled and distant, but he knew it said his name.

"Legolas."

It echoed louder this time. And as he tried to grasp on to the voice, he saw something above him, shadowed by the light behind it.

As the smooth, deep voice continued to call to him, the object diving towards him became clear.

A hand reached out to him from the surface; it's skin fair and smooth, unmarred by scars, and it's nails were clean and polished.

It reached further for him, and the voice rang loud in his ears. The hands that held him became frantic, tightening their hold on him; they clawed and scratched for more leverage to pull him down.

But the voice stirred something within Legolas and he found a small reserve of strength deep within himself to keep fighting, he just needed to reach that hand.

He yanked his right arm out of the prison of two hands, they grabbed and tore at his chest and sides trying to regain a hold. He thrust his right hand out, and graced the fingertips of the outstretched hand.

Another pull from below; he thrust his arm out again, extending it so far that he felt his shoulder muscles protest from the strain, but it worked.

The hand wrapped it's long, slender yet surprisingly powerful fingers around his hand and pulled him upwards towards the light.

The waters rushed past him as the hand pulled him quickly towards the surface. Even though he could barely find the strength to hold on, the hand held him tight.

Moments from breaking through the surface, the light became blindingly bright. Legolas's eyes closed and opened as he tried to see what lay beyond the water, but as the waters parted and he felt his body being lifted into the cold, fresh, air—

Legolas flew forward and with a loud gasp, cold air rushing into his lungs. He coughed and sputtered, expecting to feel water rising from his lungs and out of his mouth. But nothing came up. Only clean, cold air inundated his body with each large inhale he shakily sucked in.

But hands fell upon him again. Confusion and panic made him recoil without thinking. He shimmied backwards away from the touch, but his body quickly slammed into something flat and hard; it let out a loud and woody rattle in protest.

"Shhh. Legolas. It is alright."

A warm hand cupped his cheek; he shied away.

Though he could see, he did not fully process the scenery around him as his eyes stared blurrily at the forest-green that covered his legs. His body trembled still from the memory of what he realized must have been a dream. And he felt chilled, yet his skin felt clammy from perspiration.

Legolas's neck and shoulders tensed as the hand tried to steer his gaze. As he turned his head away, another warm hand grazed his other cheek. Gently, the hands insisted he turn his head.

"Legolas. _Ion-nín."_ the voice continued to call to him as if it did not think him present. "Can you hear me? If so, you are home, in your own bed. There is nothing here you need fear."

The soothing tone stroked and calmed his electrified nerves, but he struggled to understand the words or what they meant.

Beneath this hands he felt the woven fabric of bedsheets, and his fingers clung to a soft, pillowy mattress. His lower body lay beneath a thin, yet dense blanket, and he felt his legs and feet restricted and tangled in the sheet that lay between him and the blanket.

"Legolas, can you hear me?" the voice grew worried, and the hands finally forced his face to turn and tilt slightly upwards.

Eyelids squinted rapidly, still sensitive to the bright lights of the room. Large, fuzzy blobs of white, gold, and amber slowly began to focus and turn into actual shapes.

In front of him stood a tall and slender figure bent forward, observing him closely. Though his vision still lacked focus, the figure had fair skin and wore a shimmering amber robe of some kind.

A rich, sweet fragrance awoke his senses as the figure leaned closer to him. Beneath the soft woody smell hid a hint of citrus; it was a familiar mixture that wrapped around him and made him feel safe.

As his eyes continued to focus, more details formed. Long, blonde hair hung straight down on either side of the figures head, and a slender, dark ring ran around it the top. From the amber tunic sprang twinkling gold detail work, and beneath the tunic were dark brown pants that disappeared at the knee behind the bed on which he rested.

Ice-blue crystals danced and swam in deep-sea blue irises as the figured stared at him. The wide, observant blue eyes watched him through long, black lashes; while thick, brunette brows pinched together and downward, causing fine wrinkles to form on the otherwise smooth face.

As his vision continue to clear, Legolas pulled back slightly from the figure, because to his surprise and confusion, the figure standing before him was his father.

"Adar?" he asked in a dry, raspy voice as he stared into the glistening blue eyes.

At the recognition, Thranduil's eyes sharpened and his face relaxed. Exhaling softly, the elf-king stood up and then seated himself in a chair beside Legolas.

"Yes. Ion-nín. I am here." Thranduil let out a small sigh while placing a hand upon Legolas's.

Legolas jerked away without thinkin and crossed his arms over his bare chest. At the moment he did not want to be touched.

For a split second Thranduil's brows furrowed in question at his son's reaction, but he did not pry.

"How are you feeling?" the elf-king asked instead.

"What has happened?" Legolas questioned, rapidly rubbing his hand over his eyes. Then he swiped one hand upwards to comb back a few unruly strands of hair, but a sharp pain sparked from the top left side of his head.

"Tsk." he hissed under his breath as his shoulders jumped; without thinking his hand moved over the wound to inspect.

"It is a small cut." Thranduil said while swiftly staying Legolas's hand from bothering it. "The healer tasked to check on you yesterday morning reported that you woke from your sleep in an utter panic, and apparently you injured yourself in the process."

Legolas looked to his father in confusion, for he had no recollection of such a thing.

"What?" he asked as he shifted and scooted himself up against a pile of pillows.

The corner of Thranduil's mouth twitched, "I said the same thing when I heard of it yesterday afternoon—" his voice lowered— "do not ask me why they waited that long to inform me of the situation."

Legolas watched his father as he spoke. Something seemed different. Maybe he sat less poised than usual, or maybe he did something with his wardrobe; Legolas couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Thranduil sighed and crossed his legs, clasping his hands around one knee, "I was told the healer whose care you were in yesterday tried to subdue you, but was ultimately forced to give you a sedative because you were out of control." the frown deepened, "If I had known they had given you enough sedative to put down an oliphant I would have beheaded the healer right then and there."

Though he had no memory of what his father spoke, it explained why his body and limbs felt twenty pounds too heavy and his head felt clouded.

And his throat felt dry. Very dry. Swallowing, he couldn't help but flinch as he felt his saliva move roughly down his raw throat. He needed water.

Turning his head side to side to see if any water sat close by, his hand inadvertently moved to his throat.

Thranduil read his son's body language and quickly stood up and brought him back a glass of water.

"Drink this, slowly." he said.

As soon as Legolas wrapped his hand around the cool glass, a nauseating rumble rose from deep in his stomach, rolling and churning it's way upwards.

Legolas stared inwardly for a moment in shock and confusion, and his delay almost left him with sullied bed sheets. Quickly realizing he did not have control over what was occuring, Legolas thrust the glass back into his father's hand and kicked the bedsheets off and flew out of bed towards the washroom.

Thranduil pulled back, then stood and yelled after his retreating son, "Legolas! What is it?"

But Legolas could not answer. Bare feet struck the chilled stone floor as he scrambled through the washroom's arched doorway; dropping to his knees, he slid over to the unsuspecting metal waste basket located by the sink and dove headfirst into it.

The stomach acid burned his throat and nostrils as he heaved the contents of his stomach into the bin. Through the rolling stomach spasms he gasped for a air, before succumbing to another agonizing spasm.

"Lego—oh." Thranduil faltered when he turned the corner of the doorway to find Legolas curled around al trash container on the washroom floor.

Legolas's face burned from strain as well as from embarrassment. He had never shown such vulnerability or weakness in front of his father before, but try as he might to stem the tide of sickness, he could do nothing but hold on to the cold metal container for dear life.

"I will be right back," Thranduil said from behind Legolas, "Stay—stay right there."

He heard his father's footsteps cross the floor of his bed chambers and then the squeak of the door opening and the soft thud of it closing.

After several minutes of being at the mercy of his own body, eventually the only thing left to come up was a mixture of saliva and bile.

Letting out a low groan as he sat back on his heels, Legolas finally felt safe to release his deathgrip on the bin. Slowly, he stretched his neck back and forth to try and release some of the ache. For someone who had not been on active duty recently, all of his muscles felt sore. He also realized he felt absolutely exhausted. Shaking his head he let out a sigh, he just thanked the gods his stomach had stopped it's purge.

The squeak of the bedroom door met the prince's ears. Three pairs of feet entered this time; one belonged to his father—long strided and light, the other he believed to be Lord Elrond's—for he shuffled his left foot slightly. The other he found familiar but could not clearly identify.

"He is in there." Thranduil said.

Not wanting to be seen in such a vulnerable state by anyone, Legolas quickly pulled himself up with the help of the cavern stone countertop.

From around the corner appeared his father, Lord Elrond, and the healer Cestë.

As he stood, trying to appear casual, a swirl of light-headedness hit him and caused him to sway too far to the left; he barely caught himself in time by grabbing a hold of the countertop.

"Your highness." Cestë exclaimed as she rushed to Legolas's side.

"I am fine." he said quickly withdrawing from her touch. Upon seeing the glimmer of hurt in her hazel eyes, Legolas gentled himself, "Please forgive me, I do not mean to be rude."

Cestë bowed her head and stepped away from the prince.

"Let me get this out of the way, your highness." she said as she reached for the used container on the floor at his feet.

Legolas closed his eyes, grimacing from the sheer embarrassment and humiliation of having someone else clean up after his sickness.

"You do not need to do that." he said quietly, "I will take care of it."

Already almost out of the washroom doorway, Cestë turned around and smiled, "Do not be ridiculous, your highness. It is a healer's job to tidy up after her patients. I promise you this is nothing I have not seen or cleaned up before;" her hazel eyes twinkled with humor, "I am just glad it is in the basket and not on me."

Standing beside her, Lord Elrond looked at the healer and chuckled in mutual agreement and understanding.

Legolas flashed Cestë a grateful smile and nod before she disappeared through the doorway.

"Do you feel you may be sick, still?" Elrond asked in his healer's tone while stepping up to Legolas and placing the back of his hand against the prince's forehead.

Legolas shook his head and muttered, "I think I am alright, now."

"Good. Let us get you back to the bed. I brought you tea to calm your stomach, it will also help sooth your throat."

Nodding his head, Legolas gingerly walked backed to the bed with Elrond by his side and Thranduil leading the way. Once sitting in bed again, Elrond handed him a warm cup of tea that smelled strongly of ginger root.

The tea washed warm, soothing waves down his sore throat and into his stomach. He could almost visualize the warmth spreading from his stomach to the other parts of his body. The ginger root had a strong, spicy flavor that subtly changed to sweet. He was not regularly one to like ginger root tea, but in this instance he felt quite fond of the healing elixir.

While Legolas sat quietly enjoying his tea and avoiding eye contact with either his father or the Lord, Elrond pinched the prince's wrist for a pulse, examined his eyes one by one, and asked a series of health questions.

"How did you feel upon waking, Legolas?" Elrond asked as he rested his elbows on his knees while sitting in the chair beside the bed.

"Fine. For the most part." Legolas lied. He hoped he could avoid speaking of the nightmare or his sudden bout of sickness if he kept things brief.

"He was in the throws of a nightmare when I woke him." Thranduil said, standing on the other side of the bed from Elrond. "He shouted twice, and kicked his bed covers off. After the dream did not seem to be righting itself, I decided to wake him." a slight scowl formed on the elf-king's face, "It took several minutes to bring him to full consciousness." concern glimmered in Thranduil's eyes as he looked between Legolas and Elrond.

Elrond nodded several times, "Mhm." he said. "Mmhmm. Okay."

Once the elf-king finished, Elrond sighed, "I believe you are fine beside suffering the symptoms of a strong dose of sedative. Drowsiness, nausea, vomiting, loss of memory, dizziness, all these can be symptoms of a heavy sedative dose. And as you do not have a fever, I do not suspect anything else the matter."

The door suddenly opened with it's signature squeak and Cestë popped in with a new, clean metal container.

"Just me." she said in a sweet and cheerful voice as she walked past the three elves by the bed and over to the washroom.

Moving to the same side of the bed as Elrond, Thranduil crossed his arms and leaned against the wooden pole of the four poster bed. Looking down at Elrond he said, "Am I to understand these symptoms normal?"

"In large enough doses, yes." Elrond turned and looked up at Thranduil. "But I would like to question the healer who did this to ask them why they felt the need to administer such a large dose. I have trouble believing Legolas to be so out of hand that a healer trained in restraining unruly patients could not have called for assistance and used a lighter dose to reduce the risk of side effects."

"Cestë." Thranduil snapped his head to the healer coming back from the washroom, "Whose watch was Legolas under yesterday morning?"

Cestë startled and stopped in the middle of the room. After a moment of thought, "I believe it was Amondaer, your majesty." she said politely.

A chill ran down Legolas's spine and he inwardly flinched at the mention of the healer's name; his own reaction surprised him, since the healer had only ever been a bit strange and annoyingly helpful to him. But, if he was being completely honest with himself, the healer simply made his skin crawl. And the thought that he had been in the healer's care and had no memory of it made him uneasy.

"Please fetch and bring him here." Thranduil ordered.

Cestë bit her lower lip and wiped both palms down her robes as she said, "Unfortunately, your majesty, Amondaer was one of the healer's requested for the rescue mission; he left with the troops first thing this morning."

Both Thranduil and Elrond tensed at her words, and Legolas perked up and looked at both elves before him.

The prince's eyes narrowed as he said, "What rescue mission?"

Ignoring Legolas, Thranduil inhaled deeply and he said, "Thank you, Cestë. You may leave."

Reading the room, Cestë's hazel eyes darted between the three elves as she fidgeted with the fabric of her robes.

"Is there anything else I can get you before I go, your majesty?"

"No, thank you." Thranduil said dismissively without looking at the healer.

Cestë nodded her understanding and bowed before quickly exiting the room. The door closed behind her with a thud, and tap-tapping of her shoes could be heard descending the staircase. Thranduil resembled a marble statue as he listened over his shoulder for the healer's footsteps to disappear down the stairs.

Less concerned with the healer, Elrond leaned forward and placed a hand on the covers above Legolas's legs and said, "Now, Legolas. How is everything—"

"What mission, Adar?" Legolas ignored Elrond's attempt to forget the previous subject and gazed up at his father.

Leaning against the four-poster bed, Thranduil shifted his weight as he kept his arms folded across his chest, "It is nothing to be concerned with."

Legolas placed the almost empty cup of tea on the bedside table and retorted, "If it is nothing, then why do you keep it from me?"

Flames flickered in the elf-king's eyes, but he kept his voice cool and steady, "Because as your King, I have the ri—"

"Thranduil." Elrond coughed into his hand indiscreetly.

Both blonde's turned and looked at the Lord of Rivendell. But, Thranduil understood what his friend meant; so with deep inhale he sighed and said, "Fine."

"I do not have time for this," Legolas snapped. He did not have the patience to play his father's games, nor did he feel like being treated as if he was an ignorant child. There were plenty of other ways for him to get the information he wanted, in much less aggravating ways.

Throwing the covers off of him, he swung his legs off the side of the bed. Without turning to look at either elf, he said, "Lord Elrond, thank you for your concern and for the tea. I feel well now and would like to start my day."

"Legolas," Elrond pleaded, "You need to rest here for the day. The effects of the sedative can last twelve to thirty-six hours depending, you could well experience lightheadedness, dizziness, or even another bout of nausea for some time still; it is best you stay in bed to rest and hydrate."

Refusing to turn and look at either elf still, Legolas stood up and said flatly, "Thank you for the warning, I believe I have it from here."

"Legolas." Thranduil said with a stern and warning tone.

"What?" Legolas snarled and whipped around, "What is it, Adar? What have I done wrong this time?" he did not wait for Thranduil to answer, "First, I ask a simple question and that is wrong; then, I ask that I be left alone to begin my day, and that too is wrong." His nostrils flared and his lips curled as he said, "Make it,—" his hand raised and gestured— "Make it easier on both of us and just order me to do or say whatever it is that will make me agreeable to you."

An awkward silence befell the room. And, after several seconds of Legolas avoiding eye contact with his father, who stood glaring at him, and Elrond sitting between them looking back and forth, Thranduil finally spoke.

"We received news in this morning's early hours of another orc attack." Thranduil revealed as his body softened, "Luckily, this time there was a survivor."

Legolas listened to his father, grateful he had finally decided to speak with him candidly.

But, despite his gratefulness, an unfamiliar anxiousness swelled within him at the thought of another orc attack. Legolas began to faintly shake where he stood, for the pictures that flitted through his mind as the words passed by made his heart pound faster and faster. His throat felt tight. And he could almost hear the distant echoes of striking swords and the last dying screams of elves as orcs plunged tainted weapons into them with loud, bragging howls.

But, he would not—could not—let either his father or Lord Elrond see any of those signs.

He swallowed and said, "Were any taken prisoner?"

"Legolas, it may be best we discuss this subject at a later date; I do not want this to distress you right now." Elrond interrupted.

Looking at Elrond across the bed, Legolas nodded, "Thank you for your concern, Lord Elrond. But I am fine." he then turned his attention back to his father.

Thranduil glanced down at Elrond for direction, but the Lord only shrugged, so Thranduil continued.

"Four. Four have been taken prisoner. How many are currently still alive we do not know. The rest were killed—or left for dead. It appears the orcs did not check the dead, they seem to be making haste. Their indiscretion is how our survivor was able to make it back to us and relay news of the attack so quickly."

"I see." Legolas dropped his gaze for a moment, mulling over this new information, as well as thinking of the terror and agony those elves were currently experiencing in the hands of the orcs; he knew too well what they suffered, or what they were soon going to suffer.

Another question popped into his mind and he raised his head, "Do they take them to Dol Guldur?"

Thranduil's jaw muscles bulged slightly and his expression iced-over. "That is the direction they appear to be heading, yes."

The need for action kicked in and Legolas turned on his heels and walked briskly over to the large armoire that held his leathers and greens.

"We must get to them first." he said with urgency as he opened both doors of the armoire to grab an outfit.

"Hence the reason I have already sent out a small army to retrieve them." Thranduil said stepping around the corner of the bed towards his son, "And what do you think you are doing?"

Legolas turned to his father, his hands still on the armoire's open doors, "I can help save them, Adar. With Taur—" the words stuck in his throat and his chest burned at the truth of the statement, but he took a breath and continued— "with Tauriel gone, they will need skilled warriors. I can also guide them from my own personal experiences with the orcs."

"Everything from your debriefing was relayed to the soldiers before they left." Thranduil said stepping towards his son who continued to look through the mass of clothes hanging inside the large armoire, "and Lieutenant Aegon has filled in for Tauriel until a new Guard Captain can be appointed."

Legolas found and pulled out the leather and greens he wanted to wear and walked back towards the bed. He partially heard what his father said and nodded in understanding. Lieutenant Aegon was a perfectly capable commander, and he applauded whoever had made that choice.

"Legolas." his father said from behind him.

"What?" he replied absentmindedly, his thoughts already on gathering all the intel for the mission to meet up with the group that had already set out.

"Legolas." Thranduil's voice grew stern.

And Legolas did not miss the tone change. Whipping around with the tunic still in his hands, he asked, "What?"

Placing his hands behind his back, Thranduil's chin tilted upwards ever so slightly, "You will not be meeting them. You are to stay here and rest."

"But I am fine now." Legolas protested, once again lying. Though he felt better then when his head was in the wastebasket, his body still felt shaky and weak. But he knew some fresh forest air and a bow in his hand again would make it all better.

"Do not make this difficult, Legolas." Thranduil said firmly, "I cannot in good conscience let you go."

"What do you mean 'in good conscience'?" Legolas demanded. Then, the image of a snow-covered hilltop, and his father standing before him with anger-filled eyes flashed before his mind.

"If this is about my behaviour at the funeral, Adar. I know I stepped far beyond any boundary or line of decency—I honestly do not know how I became so intoxicated. But I did. I know I did, and I realize I disrespected and embarrassed you." Legolas dropped his gaze as the shameful memories came trickling back. "I am ashamed and humiliated by my actions that day. Please, let me go out there and help. Give me the chance to redeem myself in the eyes of our people and in yours, as well as my own."

The elf-king's broad shoulders dropped slightly at his son's heartfelt words. Despite the fact Thranduil seemed moved by the apology, he took a deep breath and said, "No, Ion-nín. I cannot let you go. There will be other opportunities for redemption. This will not be it."

"But, Adar. Why?"

A pained expression flashed across Thranduil's face as his shoulders and arms tensed. He bowed his head and closed his eyes for a moment. Opening them again, his voice deepened as he said, "Due to recent events, I fear your ableness on the battlefield at the moment. With some more time and rest I am sure it will remedy itself."

The words his father spoke cut Legolas like a knife. In all the years of him being a soldier, his father had never questioned his ability to handle himself in a fight. Deep within his core a cold, piercing pain radiated and spread like lightning to his limbs and up into his throat.

He didn't know what his father meant by those words. Did Thranduil think him no longer able to handle himself? No longer able to fight? To contribute? Did he think him broken?

" _You're just so broken."_ an unfamiliar voice echoed in his ears, sending another shockwave of ice through his nerves.

"Jagged little pieces…" Legolas whispered to himself.

"What was that?" Thranduil asked.

Legolas shook the words out of his head, for he had no idea where they had sprung from. Instead, he brought his attention back to his father, who stood before him watching him with a calculating stare, though his eyes seemed more worried then investigative.

"I—I do not know what to say." Legolas said as he turned back around and placed the tunic on the bed with the rest of the outfit.

"Legolas," Elrond chimed in, "This is not an unusual experience for someone who has been through the type of traumatic events as you have recently. And, with the recent, devastating loss of Tauriel on top of it all, it is impressive you are standing as firmly as you are right now." Elrond paused for a moment and cleared his throat, "But, there are also signs that you are struggling to accept and adjust to what has happened—which is absolutely understandable and normal. We—" Elrond glanced at Thranduil across the room and then back to Legolas— "want you to know that we are here for you in any way you need. You do not have to go through this alone."

The wafting and flickering of the candle flames on their blackened wicks could be heard as the room lay in stunned silence. Legolas just stared at Elrond for a long moment, processing what the older elf had just said to him.

They acted as if he had run through the Halls naked, screaming and cursing obscenities. They acted like he had decided to go live with dwarves. All he had done was accidentally drink too much—one time; albeit, a badly timed time, but still, it was one time. Most soldiers drank too much regularly, many of them did so because of what they had witnessed or because of a lost loved one. He did not see each of them being recited this spiel of pity.

He sighed as he thought, 'but none of them are the son of Thranduil, nor the Prince of the Woodland Realm.' None of them were expected to rise above it all and continue onward as if nothing happened. They were not expected to be perfect. To be everything ordinary elves and men could not be.

But he was. He carried the title of Thranduil's only son and heir to the dwindling realm of Mirkwood. He carried Oropher's blood within his veins and a legacy he could do well without.

Standing before both elves with their attention intently on him, Legolas suddenly felt incredibly exposed and vulnerable.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. Vacillating between disbelief, hurt, and rage, Legolas took a deep breath to keep his composure.

Lifting his head, he locked eyes with Elrond, "I would like to be left alone now." his voice felt thick and rough as he did his best to remain stoic.

"Legolas," Elrond pleaded. His shoulders sagged as he gazed at the fuming prince. "Do not take this the wrong way, we—"

"I have had enough." Legolas said abruptly, "Like I said before, thank you for your concern and the tea. But I would like to be alone now."

"Do you understand what was said?" Thranduil asked as he moved a step towards the door.

Legolas did not want to recount what was said, he did not want to verbally confirm their doubts in him, he just wanted them to leave.

"Legolas, answer me." Thranduil ordered as he watched his son closely.

With his blood boiling, Legolas angrily shook his head as his tongue jabbed the inside of his cheek. He had hoped his father would have the decency to let him be, but that could never be the case with Thranduil.

Letting out a forceful breath, Legolas replied, "I am to stay here and rest since you both feel I am unfit for battle."

"It is an impermanent state, Legolas." Elrond said with a concerned look on his face, as he stood, "You need time to process all of this, perhaps talk to someone with similar experiences. You need to give—"

"Thank you, Lord Elrond." Legolas interrupted. "Now if you both would leave, I would like to take a shower."

Thranduil and Elrond glanced sideways at each other, and then abated.

"I will be in the infirmary for a while helping with the returned soldier, if you need anything do not hesitate to ask." Elrond said as he opened the heavy wooden door.

"And I will be—somewhere; my office most likely." Thranduil said awkwardly trying to copy Elrond's fatherly behaviour.

Legolas kept his eyes glaring at the floor, but nodded in understanding. With that, Elrond and Thranduil exited the room, closing the door with a soft thud.

Legolas waited to hear the footsteps walk all the way down the winding steps, across the living room, and out the main doors.

Once he heard the closing thud of the main door, he relaxed and let out a aggravated sigh and rubbed both hands down his face. With another deep inhale and less aggravated exhale, he turned and headed towards the washroom.

Once through the arch doorway—this time not scrambling for the waste bin—Legolas stepped up to the large stone outcropping that had been carved into a large sink.

Looking into the large mirror hanging on the stone wall, he grimaced at his reflection. Dark pools wallowed in his sunken features, and the sky blue of his eyes had turned a dark grey. He leaned in to inspect the scabbed-over gash cutting through his hairline on the left side of his forehead. While poking it he accidentally opened a small part of the laceration; quickly it filled with a shimmering puddle of blood.

Deciding it best to leave it alone like his father had said, he straightened his back and scanned the rest of his shirtless physique. Blonde hair lay oily and stringy past his shoulders. An excess of oil glistened over the rest of his body too, telling him it had been too long since his last bath. Beneath the everyday grime, he noticed his normally light olive skin-tone had taken on an odd, almost yellowish, pale undertone.

And he had lost weight; his stomach lay slightly indented, and his ribs and hip bones peeked out beneath his sickly looking skin. But that did not surprise him; it was not unusual for him to go off food in times of stress, and the few days while in captivity without even the option of food hadn't helped.

That is when he realized that his memories of the last several hours, if not days, were gone from him. The last clear thing he recalled was being in the dining hall with everyone gathered for—he winced,—Tauriel's funeral, and raising a glass of wine to his lips as he sat amongst the crowd.

He still couldn't believe he had done that at her funeral.

He shook the shame-filled thoughts out of his head and took a deep breath. It must be the effects of the sedative, he vaguely recalled Elrond mentioning memory loss in the list of symptoms.

His throat tightened at the thought of causing someone so much trouble that they felt they had no choice but to sedate him—for everyone's safety. What had he turned into? For someone normally so in control, he felt like he was breaking—breaking into a million little jagged pieces, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't keep himself together. Every time he reached for something solid, it turned to dust—or ashes—between his fingers.

He shook his head again. There was no use in bashing himself over the head about it. It was done. There was nothing he could do, about any of it. He couldn't go back. He couldn't save her, or any of them. He couldn't pull his soldiers back from making the tragic mistake on his call. The only thing he could do was move forward. Hopefully the future held some form of redemption for him, because he couldn't see how else he was going to live with himself without it.

He would start his path to redemption, after he got clean.

Because honestly, how could he _think_ when he felt so disgusting. He needed to take a shower and he needed to take it _now_. Sweat clung to his forehead and neck, his hair felt permanently tangled, and for some reason he was missing his nightshirt.

Swiping a hand to comb back the rogue strands of hair dangling in his face lead to the sharp, biting pain again. He jerked his hand back and stared at his fingers where he saw a faint bit of red dotting his digits.

Legolas partly laughed, and partly kicked himself for forgetting about the head wound so quickly.

Leaning forward again, he checked the wound with his fingers in the mirror to make sure he hadn't opened the scab up once more.

 _Blood dripping down two erect fingers_ flashed in front of his eyes. Legolas paused, blinking several times at what he had just seen.

 _An outstretched tongue licked upwards, lapping up the trail of crimson._

A shiver slithered up his spine and he felt disgusted by what he saw.

Though he didn't have the faintest clue about what it actually was that he saw. The images made no sense.

Shaking his head, he decided to ignore the disturbing pictures; most likely his mind was just scrambled from the sedative still running through his system.

Just the sedative. That was it. Pesky side effects. It would also explain why someone who'd been asleep for so long still felt extremely tired and worn out.

Another thing a shower might help.

Behind the standalone stone wall that held the sink lay a magnificent shower and private bath. It had been designed to offer privacy while keeping the vast, open air design. The large natural basic hot spring pool could be seen to the right of the sink against the far wall, while the shower hid behind the standalone wall.

Legolas's gaze slid down to the now clean waste basket. Embarrassment heated his cheeks at the thought of Cestë cleaning it out, but he quickly shoved the thoughts into the back of his mind, because once again, it was over and done with and there was nothing he could do about it, now.

He untied his cloth pants and let them drop around his ankles. Turning to his left, he grabbed a folded white towel that waited for him on a shelf, and walked to the edge of the steaming hot spring bath.

For a moment the prince stared mesmerized at the bright blue waters, contemplating whether or not to step in. But, if he was being entirely honest with himself, he felt so exhausted he feared he would fall asleep in the warm bubbling waters; the memory of his dream and the thought of being submerged under water sent a shiver up his spine and he quickly turned away and headed for the shower.

The cavern rock had been chiseled and shaped into a half-circle, concave rock wall to render it's likeness to a rock shelf near a river or creek. Legolas had requested such when this part of the palace was being built. He wanted it to emulate the surrounding landscape as much as possible.

Dark and light green foliages sprung from the natural rock wall and hung from the ceiling. The living-light stones emitted enough natural light to allow a miniature rainforest to grow in the large room. High up on the rock wall jutted a shelf that stretched all the way across to either adjoining wall.

Stepping towards the middle of the wall, Legolas turned a heavy iron handle that partially hid between dangling vines; a deep groan and shutter came from behind the stone wall, and then a waterfall of clear, warm water cascaded down upon him.

There, Legolas stood, relishing in the cleansing waters while it crashed down upon his body and began washing all the dirt and grime away.

The room began to fill with steam. It filled his lungs as well as the entire room. The pleasant aromas of lavender and peppermint lifted from the floor, where the plant's oils had been dispersed earlier for the prince's pleasure.

He reached for a bar of soap resting on a rock ledge and began to lather his body with it, his mind wandered back to the clouded memories that flitted around in his tired mind.

The waterfall created a cacophonous shushing sound that filled his ears and the aromatic oils relaxed his mind and body. Slowly, the buried images began to emerge as he stared up into the thickets of green.

The harsh wind whipped strands of long blonde hair across his father's stunned face and fire-filled eyes. He heard his own voice echoing in his skull, yelling blasphemous things into the cold, mountain air. A stream of wind-whipped memories made him cringe while forming a sharp ache in his heart. He sighed and tilted his head further back to allow the water to rush down his hair; they were not pleasant memories to look back upon, but at least he remembered them.

Continuing to rub the the bar of soap along his tired and aching muscles, he concentrated on remembering what had happened after the funeral mishap.

As the memories began to slowly emerge and show themselves, Legolas began to feel very confused; because though his memories were still choppy and erratic, the scene he began to piece together seemed very different from the healer's report.

He did not see himself waking up in turmoil; he saw himself waking up calmly—confused, but calm—in his own bed; the ghost of a skull-splitting headache colored the particular memory painfully.

He had heard his door creak open. Someone—presumably the healer Amondaer, had come into his room to tend to him.

Legolas's brows furrowed as he tried to remember it like the healer reported, but in his mind he did not see himself panicked nor out of control. He didn't hear Amondaer begging him to calm down, or telling him that it was alright. He didn't see any of that.

The memories in his brain were of having a slightly awkward, but not unusual conversation with the healer.

He remembered that even through the skull-splitting headache, he had felt uneasy in the healer presence.

The sound of him saying, " _What are you doing here? This is not the infirmary."_ echoed in his ears.

" _You don't remember? Lord Elrond brought you to the infirmary last night in need of rehydration—I may have allowed you out of the infirmary, but I still have a duty to ensure your health and safety."_ had been Amondaer's response.

Legolas's eyes widened as he heard the shuffling and banging sounds of a struggle suddenly happen. But it hadn't happened because of something he had done. Something had made him leap up and try to flee—something the healer had done.

Legolas swallowed hard and dread began to prickle in his stomach. In his mind he clearly saw the healer's pointed features, smiling down at him with a mischievous smile, while Legolas remembered feeling confused, then he had realized something and tried to flee.

The sound of a short struggle echoed in his mind, quickly followed by the swirling memory of hitting a wall and something crashing on top of him.

He brought his hand up to the gash on his head. It still stung to the touch.

" _Do not touch me!"_ suddenly screamed in his ears.

Legolas paused in his scrubbing. Amondaer had drugged him, not to prevent him from continuing to fight, but to _prevent_ him from being able to fight at all. He remembered a numb heaviness spreading through his body and limbs as he helplessly sank to the floor, unable to move.

And then—and then Amondaer did the unthinkable. He did not draw a sword or dagger to assassinate him, he did not whisk him away for a ransom, he had leaned in and kissed him.

Staring wide eyed at the ground, his hand came up and touched his quivering lips. The memory of the icy kiss made him curl his lips inwards, a sour taste forming in his mouth once again.

What had happened after the kiss? His memories of it all were still blurry and discombobulated, but he could make most of it out before the kiss, when he still had some control of his mind. But after the kiss it had all turned to blackness. No matter how hard he strained his mind to remember, he could not.

His eyes began to burn as he glared at the stone floor, his teeth clenching so hard that the muscles in his jaw ached, and his chest felt like an oliphant sat on it.

The prince had never been attacked in such a manner before, and he found himself completely blindsided by it.

Nothing more could have happened, he told himself. There is absolutely no way that he could have been degraded by such an act.

An unpleasant tingling spread across the back of his neck, and a hard lump formed in his throat.

Focusing inward, he scanned his body for anything—painful. But he detected nothing out of the ordinary, much to his relief.

Opening his eyes, he looked down at his body for any external signs; everything appeared normal, except a few small, purplish bruises on his right wrist.

Fingerprints; those were caused by someone's hand wrapping around his wrist.

Anger and betrayal swirled through him. Images of hands upon him covered his mind, and he shook his head to rid himself of the panic-inducing images.

It could not be. It could not have happened. Though, it appeared _something_ had happened, he felt earnestly _it_ did not happen.

But then what _did_ Amondaer do to him?

Hands. Hands upon him, grabbing him, pulling at him, wanting him.

The shower's hot rain no longer felt soothing. It made his skin cringe. He needed to get out.

Without thinking, he slammed his fist into the iron handle and shut the water off. For a moment, the room lay eerily quiet, the static noise of the mist droplets falling back to the earth and onto the plant leaves the only sounds in the open room.

Water droplets dripped down his hair and body as he stood glaring at the emerging floor, the muscles in his forearms twitched and bulged as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

Different ways to handle the healer ran through his mind; from torture to outright killing, he played over the scenarios. Whatever he did, he would have to do it discreetly, because even though he knew the blame rested on Amondaer's shoulders, telling anyone else about the incident was out of the question.

Unlike the societies of man, elves of all races took the concept of consent with incredible seriousness and sincerity. In all walks of elven existence, consent flowed underneath the societal foundations; from something as simple as entering someone's home to being physically intimate with another, consent always came first. And outright denying someone the ability to say yes or no shook Legolas to the core.

The room began to go in and out of focus. He closed his eyes and reopened them in an attempt to clear his vision, but it continued to blur and double. His head and vision swam as lightheadedness began to overtake him again. Though still covered in water, his body began to feel hot—very hot.

The heat from the surrounding steam—he needed to get out and cool down. Carefully, he walked across the slippery stone floor until he could reach his hand out and grabbed the standalone wall that stood between him and the washroom exit.

Once at the wall he leaned his full weight against it, letting the sturdy structure carry the swirling room for him.

But a minute of standing against the wall did not help his dizziness; he was still too angry.

Sucking in a deep breath, Legolas closed his eyes for a moment and bowed his head; he pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to relax the strain he felt behind his eyes. Slowly, he exhaled the breath and repeated the calming practice.

Images of interactions with Amondaer flashed behind his closed eyelids. How had he never realized the healer's true intentions? What exactly were his intentions? What had he planned to do with him? Why did he not finish the job when he had him so completely pliable?

The heat in his body continued to rise; he needed to stop thinking about the incident for a minute.

Deep in his stomach an ache began to rumble again, and Legolas knew what it's intentions were this time.

"Please, no." he groaned under his breath.

But the chunderous feeling only intensified, filling his stomach and traveling upwards.

Legolas swallowed hard and tried to make it stop, but his feeble attempts were useless.

Swinging around the corner of the wall, Legolas skidded his way back to the waste basket and heaved what remained of the ginger tea into the container.

Still raw from the previous upheaval, the mixture of burning stomach acid and spicy ginger seared his throat, making his eyes fill with hot tears.

Several more violent spasms emptied his stomach completely. But he still hung his head into the basket for safety, and sure enough another spasm made him dry-heave into the basket. A sharp pain stabbed the tips of his fingers as he dug them into the unyielding metal.

Several unproductive dry-heaves left him feeling woozy and with a pounding headache. His body shuddered and spasmed from exhaustion as he hung there hopelessly at the mercy of his own body.

The lingering steam from the shower no longer surrounded him so close to the open doorway, and the cool cavern air wafted in from the other room, slowly cooling his enraged body. It took extreme determination to not think of how he planned to kill the healer for doing this to him, because as soon as he let his mind go there his body would begin to boil again.

Finally, it seemed his body realized it could purge no more. Panting heavily, Legolas raised his heavy and pounding head from the basket and let it bobble on his strained neck.

After a few moments of no more stomach spasms, Legolas carefully lowered himself down to where he could lay against the cool, stone floor in the doorway of the washroom. The tremors eased and the headache receded, leaving him staring up at the high vaulted ceiling, his eyelids slowly becoming heavier and heavier.

Swallowing hard, thick saliva scratched against his burnt throat and he silently wished for a glass of water to magically appear.

Sleep called to him, offering to embrace him and take it all away. He felt so incredibly tired. His body felt heavy, too weak to even lift itself. The chilled floor felt amazing to his still warm skin; he could easily fall asleep right there on the washroom floor.

But then, a scream erupted in his ears and the image of the whipping posts covered in blood flashed before his eyes. The healed wounds burned on his back as he remembered the captured elves. At this moment they were suffering. They needed rescued. Heavy eyelids slammed open and he flew up from the floor.

He needed to get to them. _Save them_.

*Author Peeks out from around the corner* So, I hope you liked this. Will be uploading new chapters as soon as I can churn them out. Let me know what your thinking, or what you might like to see happen. Though I already have the story planned out, I like hearing others thoughts and ideas and can sometimes shift and move the storyline to work with others input. Thank you all a million times over for taking the time to read, like, and review this story. It means the world to me 3


	18. Chapter 18

*Author Note: "I'm baaaaccckkk." Super sorry for the delay in updating, life has been incredibly busy recently, and I've struggled to get writing time in. I plan on posting the next chapter after one last review, so that should happen in the next day or two! Thanks for hanging in there with me, and please leave a review!

Chapter 18

"Is that how _heart-to-hearts_ normally go?" Thranduil asked the Lord as they walked side by side away from the prince's living chambers.

Elrond clicked his tongue and tilted his head, "It could have gone better, but it could have gone much worse as well. Let us give him some time to think and mull over what was said, maybe he will come to understand that we only mean to help."

"Yes." Thranduil replied absentmindedly as he slowly nodded his blonde head and wove his long slender fingers together in front of him.

The elven-king and father hadn't had any expectations as to how _that_ conversation with Legolas should go, so to him, Legolas had taken it fairly well; Thranduil suspected that a young Thranduil would not have taken the polite confrontation as calmly or courteously.

But then again, that had always been one of the vast valleys separating Thranduil and his only son. Legolas had a tendency to absorb and turn unpleasantries inward and hold them within himself. Even a perceptive and willful elf can only do that for so long before they eventually snap.

Thranduil, on the other hand, was the exact opposite, he preferred to keep unpleasantries on the outside behind an invisible wall, and he could admit it had led to complications in their relationship over the centuries. Being more outspoken and confrontational, Thranduil seldom realized when he was pushing Legolas to an edge—or better yet, a precipice; until his calm and cooperative son would eventually lash out at him with terrifying volatility.

Thranduil sighed quietly to himself as the two elves continued to walk in silence; he had a difficult time reading his son, or seeing the signs that he threw fuel on a hidden fire roaring deep beneath Legolas's calm expression.

Thranduil had never been fond or good at suppressing his opinions on matters, he found it aggravating and inefficient; he could also admit his confrontational ways had caused a few strained allied relationships over the centuries.

But they were still allies.

Thranduil's mouth went dry as he thought of his father and how Oropher had always told him he was too opinionated, too cocky; that he needed to learn how to play nice and learn to temper his temper.

Maybe Thranduil didn't want to play nice.

The elf-king's lips tightened as he heard his father's deep, melodic voice echo in his ears that that was not a choice if he wanted to be a good king and leader.

No matter what successes Thranduil achieved in his younger years, the tall blonde always lived in his father's shadow—as one should when still a prince. But, deep down Thranduil still felt he remained in that towering, dark shadow; for Oropher, the trail-blazing elf from Doriath, did so much in his time. So much so that Thranduil internally doubted he would ever measure up.

Oropher, generous yet commanding, had been the one to unite the Sindar and Silvan races together under one roof and create a flourishing society with both as a whole.

Legolas reminded Thranduil very much of his own father. They shared the same hearts for tolerance and compassion while still being able to retain that indestructible, steel will that kings were required to have.

Legolas also took after his grandfather in his natural ability to mask his true emotions and opinions with a pleasant, blank expression; something Thranduil himself had never been able to master.

It wasn't exactly that he hadn't mastered keeping his emotions hidden behind a mask, it was just that the mask wasn't technically a 'pleasant' one.

There had been a point in his youth when he had truly tried to be more like his father—be kind yet reserved, give yourself to your people, keep your quick-witted tongue behind clenched teeth. But, eventually Thranduil came to the realization that he was not an exact replica of his father, nor would he ever be—much to Oropher's disappointment.

But, those differing personality traits were also those that lead to such massive losses during the Battle of Dagorlad.

Those days were obscured by splattered blood and filth, and Thranduil vehemently denied looking back upon them. But, he knew that that one _foolish_ , intendedly selfless act of Oropher's forever burned in his mind; for that decision not only took Oropher's life but the lives of thousands of their people. That one altruistic intention ended up being the most _selfish_ act of all.

Thranduil learned that day that leading with your heart made one into a fool; it made one blind to logic.

That bloodsoaked day was also the day he was thrust into the spotlight, thrust into being king far before his time.

On the heart-sickening march back to Greenwood, Thranduil rode silently on a battered and limping horse; he himself suffering deep wounds both physically and emotionally. But on that dreaded ride back to their home, the new elf-king secretly vowed to himself that as the new King of Greenwood the Great, he would be cautious, proactive, and ruled by logic; his heart would not get in the way of his head. The welfare and lives of his people depended on it, and the rest of the world could take a flying leap for all he cared.

Because caring made you weak.

Thranduil shook his head and scattered the anger and resentment building within him at the memories. They were not one's he allowed himself to think about much, and for this little walk they'd been let too far out on their leash.

Reeling his demons back in, Thranduil turned his focus back to his son. Because despite Legolas's open and bleeding heart, he was strong; he still had a lot to learn, but his feä was strong and resilient.

Over the centuries, a brave soul or two would muster the courage to ask Thranduil why he did not communicate how proud he was to his son, why did he not verbalize his happiness in his son's accomplishments and talents.

And though Thranduil understood these brave souls good intentions, the elf-king would just turn away, for they did not understand.

It simply was not done in their family.

To applaud anything but the grandest of achievements meant allowing one to settle for second best. If they were applauded for coming in second place, what point was there in trying to reach first? By withholding praise for only the most momentous achievements, it kept one striving to achieve the highest goals, to win that sought after praise. It was how Thranduil's grandfather raised his father, and how Oropher raised Thranduil. That underlying withholding is what built strong, willful leaders who constantly reached and clawed for more, for better; and hence why Thranduil withheld so much emotionally from Legolas, because he wanted the very best for him and for him to reach his utmost potential.

Elrond and Thranduil stopped at a crossroads; the cacophonous shh-ing sound of water falling down the cavern walls and into the aquifer below filled the massive room. A light, constant mist rained down, coating their skin and hair with miniscule water droplets that would disappear the minute they walked to a dryer section of the halls.

Stopping a few feet away from Thranduil, Elrond turned around and gazed up at the taller elf; little misted water droplets clung to the top of his dark brown hair and eyelashes.

"Let us give Legolas some time to rest for now;" he said, his voice reverberated all around them in the hollow chamber, "this evening I think it would be a nice gesture for you to retrieve him from his chambers and walk with him to dinner."

Thranduil looked away for a moment and took a deep breath; his mind's reaction to that line of thought had the elf-king's muscles tensing from objection.

Several millennia of indoctrination shouted within him that a gesture such as what Elrond suggested was _too close_ , too fast, too nurturing. And doing so would only insult Legolas and plant a seed of weakness within his heart.

"It will show him you are there for him if he so wishes to reach out, that is all." Elrond calmly assured his friend with an understanding smile.

Another deep breath allowed Thranduil's muscles to relax and for him to turn back and meet Elrond's warm gaze. Swallowing his doubts, Thranduil nodded to Elrond that he understood and complied.

Change had been occurring all around him whether he liked it or not, the universe did not care whether or not Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, found the commotion uncomfortable or not. He knew he needed to stop fighting the roaring rapids and move with the river of time.

That was easier said, than done.

Thranduil glanced down to his hands grasped together in front of him and he began to fiddle with an old braided-string bracelet he wore on his left wrist; Legolas made it for him when he was a small child, and Thranduil had never taken it off.

Elrond cleared his throat as he placed a hand on Thranduil's broad shoulder, "It will be alright, old friend." he gave Thranduil's shoulder an assuring squeeze and then released his hand and turned towards a bridge leading towards the infirmary side of the Halls, "I am going to check on the progress of the injured soldier; see if there is any other bits of information he has remembered."

Thranduil nodded his head and replied, "I will be in my study until afternoon, where I will then be whisked away to be shackled to my throne while I listen to representatives from Dale speak of trade complaints and the gods know what else." Thranduil sighed dejectedly as he turned towards the bridge that would lead him to his office. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Elrond and said with a hint of humor, "Do not hesitate to retrieve me if you need anything, absolutely _anything_."

Elrond smiled and bowed, "Of course."

Both elves went their separate ways for the rest of the day.

"Five-hundred bottles; five hundred! Gone. Destroyed. Thanks to those blasted orcs."

A tall and muscularly built Sindarin shifted where he stood beside Thranduil's throne. Taking a deep breath, the Sindarin said, "Lord Saemund, we are not responsible for losses after the product changes hands. We succeeded in handing over the order to your men; it is not our fault they were ambushed on their way back to Dale. There will be no reimbursement for your losses, though you are more than welcome to order another shipment."

"That's not right!" Lord Saemund yelled while thrusting both arms up in the air in anger, "If youㅡyou elves would 'ave kept the trails clear, we wouldn't of gotten ambushed! You didn't keep up your end of the bargain!"

"Sir—" the Sindarin argued back politely.

Thranduil took a deep breath and focused on not rolling his eyes at the age-spotted bald head bobbing side to side on a spindly neck in front of him; the mouth attached to it yelled in a thick, unrefined accent that made the elf-king want to throw a book at it.

After several more exchanges between Lord Saemund of Dale and the Woodland Realm's Master Merchant Bangnon that were only escalating in tension and anger, Thranduil finally had enough.

"It's you damned knife-ears fault! You should 'ave—"

"That is enough!" Thranduil bellowed; the entire throne hall shook from his commanding tone.

Lord Saemund stopped mid sentence and stared up in awe of the elf-king perched atop his throne like a golden eagle ready to swoop down with gleaming talons to catch his prey.

But swooping is bad, and should be avoided preliminarily, Thranduil thought to himself as he took a deep inhale and swung his legs down from where they rested upon one armrest; a few hundred years as elf-king had taught him some restraint.

Leaning back deep into his seat, the elf-king locked eyes with the angry, bald-headed little human and said cooly, "I would very much like to know how your King would react to your grossly presumptuous accusations and racial insults towards his friends and allies."

Thranduil caught a glimpse of fear bolting through Lord Saemund's eyes at his words.

Beside the stout Lord Saemund stood a twig-figured man with ear length black hair and a tall, bridged nose that more resembled a beak than anything human. He leaned over and whispered something into Lord Saemund's ear that had the man puffing his chest out again ready to fight.

"It ain't presump―presumpt―presumptuous," he faltered on the larger vocabulary, and glanced over at the skinny man for reassurance; he received a small head nod and so turned back to the elf-king and continued, "if it's true."

Thranduil felt all his guards in the room tense, for very few had the audacity to argue with the Elf-King in his own Halls. And Thranduil did not settle them, he allowed them to ready themselves, for it built up the stress in the room which his guests would feel whether they realized it or not.

Little things can give one the winning edge in a fight―not that Thranduil needed any edge in this one, but it was still fun and broke up the monotony.

Thranduil paused for a moment and continued to stare deep into Lord Saemund's mud colored eyes; allowing the suspense to grow within the moronic human's hearts.

Releasing his death-stare for a quick moment, Thranduil glanced to either side of the circular platform that lay before his throne, welcoming Lord Saemund and his black bird to see how absolutely surrounded by 'knife-ears' they were. A smirk crept up one side of his mouth as he slowly brought his gaze back to Lord Saemund's—one could almost hear the heavy metallic clunk of the elf-king eyes locking onto the human's.

"You were present during the contract negotiations two years past, were you not?"

Lord Saemund gulped and narrowed his stance as he stared up at the glowering elf-king.

"Yes, sir—erm, your majesty." the human stuttered, "But I don't 'ave the contract wit' me; we are juss want'in your people to hold up their end of the bargain. I know that contract like the back of my hand," he raised his hand and showed both sides, "and the agreement states your men―er―elves, are suppose to keep the roads clear so that shipments make it back good n' proper."

Thranduil raised his chin slightly, his eyes remaining locked on the human.

"I see. I must say you and I remember things differently." Thranduil shifted and crossed one leg over the other, "As I have lived a very long time, I remember that meeting as if it were yesterday," he snapped his fingers at his attendant standing in the shadows of his throne and quickly received a large scroll. Thranduil began to unravel it as he said, "and I happen to have the trade agreement right here, because as King, why would I not?."

Thranduil cocked his head at the man and raised a taunting brow.

Lord Saemund's eyes moved to the rolled up parchment and his wide jowl's bulged. Uncertainty seemed to leave the Lord speechless, his muddy eyes darted over to the other man for assistance, but the black bird shrunk away from his silent plea.

" _Once the product has exchanged hands to the purchasing party, the trade is considered complete and satisfactory._ " Thranduil read from the contract.

"Yeah, but―" Lord Saemund began.

"Nowhere," Thranduil interrupted the man, "does it read that the elves of the Woodland Realm are to keep trade roads clear past our borders, or that we will replace lost shipments."

"But―but, well, even if it's not in there, it's common courtesy." Lord Saemund shrugged his large shoulders.

Thranduil smiled and cocked his head again, "No, it is not." he then rolled up the scroll and handed it back to his attendant.

"I do not have anymore time for fabled disputes from men who are too cowardly to face their own king and admit they lost an expensive shipment of goods; you came here hoping to rant and accuse to receive a new shipment for free so your king would never know the better of your mistakes. But, I can assure you, he will know, and he will hear of your disdainful and discourteous representation of the people of Dale, and knowing your king, you will not be well received when you return home."

The blood drained from Lord Saemund's face and his mouth dropped open like an unhinged gate. Snapping out of it after a moment, he blinked several times and looked up at the elf-king descending his throne.

"Nah-nah, that's not how 'er is, your majesty. Please, I juss get a bit hot headed sometimes; no need to go tell'in King Bard 'bout this now. Please! Let's juss forget about it!"

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you wasted my time." Thranduil said with a flip of his wrist, and the guards forcefully removed Lord Saemund and his friend from the throne room and out of the Hall's front gates.

* * *

Thranduil blew a sigh of relief as he left the throne room via the main bridge; as always, the Elven King walked with arrogant grace that seemed to light up the room almost as much as the lanterns hanging all around the vast cavern halls.

Once through the massive domed doorway, the elf-king turned left and continued walking straight, where he would normally make another left.

The attendant from the shadows of the throne now followed in his king's shadow; at the missed turn, he stopped and looked behind him as he asked politely,"Your majesty, will you not be eating in the dining hall this evening?"

"Yes," Thranduil replied without turning around, "I need to retrieve Legolas, first."

The chestnut-haired attendant turned back to his king and replied, "I do not think his highness is back yet, your majesty."

"What?" Thranduil stopped; he felt the air rush out of his lungs at the attendant's words. He needed more information. Pivoting on his boot heels, Thranduil all but lunged his upper body so that he hovered mere inches from the attendant's face.

"What do you mean he is not _back_ yet? When did he leave? Where did he go?"

The attendant's brown eyes grew wide and he swallowed before saying, "I―I saw Prince Legolas leave the halls a few hours ago, your majesty. He appeared to be going out for a hunt or something, he had is weapons."

Thranduil felt his mouth go dry. Swirling back around he cursed under his breath. Picking up his pace, Thranduil steeled his features into a solemn frown, but on the inside he begged the gods that what he feared to be true was not.

Like a dragon soaring thru the sky, Thranduil glided over the shimmering stone path, his robe tails flapping behind him and the sheepish attendant scurrying to keep up.

On either side of him, woven stone pillars blurred into rust colored paint strokes, the sound of royal boots frantically tapping the stone gave away the only clue as to the father's true state of mind.

Arriving at the large double doors in record time, Thranduil wrapped his hand around the chilled iron handle and pushed his entire body against the door. Slowly, the heavy wood creaked open as it gave way.

"Legolas." Thranduil called loudly as he stepped through the arched doorway and into the prince's living quarters.

The large living room lay silent. The couch and cushions appeared untouched, the fluttering lights in the lamps glowed low on their last sips of oil―the room itself seemed to slumber from it's vacancy.

"Legolas." Thranduil yelled a little louder as he made his way across the living room and to the bottom of the staircase, "Legolas, are you there? If so, answer me!"

He wasn't there. Thranduil felt the void his son's lack of presence left.

Placing one foot upon the bottom step, Thranduil paused and closed his eyes. A building dread filled his heart. It felt as if his ribcage had been filled with sand, making his heart beat sluggishly in his chest. With a deep inhale and exhale, he opened his eyes again and placed a palm on the cold stone wall as he ascended the staircase towards Legolas's bed chamber door.

Once at the top of the stairs, he reached for the door handle, but hesitated— a part of him wanted to turn around and pretend he knew nothing, because what he feared waited for him on the other side of that door was a journey he did not want to venture upon.

He scowled at himself as he shook his head. He had to check and see, because _if_ it were true and Legolas was gone, he could be in serious danger.

"Legolas? Are you in there?" he said with the last glimmer of hope as he knocked on the solid wood door. The loud thud, thud, thud, echoed past the door into a silent and vacant room.

A sour taste formed in Thranduil's mouth as he listened for any sounds of movement behind the door.

Nothing.

With a loud inhale, he grabbed the iron door handle and pushed it open.

"Legolas?" he called one last time, hoping beyond hope his son had fallen asleep and just hadn't heard him.

But alas, the large four-poster bed to his right lay empty and made. Thranduil travelled across the room to the washroom and peered in.

The smell of something foul immediately hit his senses and he looked to see that the waste basket had been used again.

Looking away he quickly composed himself and walked past the washroom wall to look and see if Legolas was hiding in the shower. But once again, the room lay empty.

Thranduil felt a heavy weight bearing down on his chest and limbs as he exited the bed chambers and back down the stairs. Cold seeped in from his fingertips and travelled up through his arms and to his core as his boots touched the living room floor.

Legolas had left. Thranduil would check the rest of the Halls but he knew Legolas did not reside here; he had disobeyed direct orders and gone after the rescue party.

Thranduil flinched at the image of the soiled waste basket and his own stomach churned; what had Legolas been thinking, going out there in that state? Thranduil questioned his son's ability to defend his _own self_ right now let alone help the rescue mission; his bleeding heart was putting everyone out there in danger, including himself.

History has a way of repeating itself.

"Why could you not have waited?" he hissed under his breath as he crossed the living room and met the worried attendant's brown eyes watching him from the main door.

"Majesty?" the attendant asked meekly.

Thranduil pushed past the attendant, he needed to speak with Elrond immediately.

The pillars and walls turned to blurred paint stokes again as the elf-king nearly ran down the path leading to the infirmary. On the outside, his features remained set in stone, but inside his heart raced faster than his feet.

Bursting through the large main doors, the sweet scent of athelas floating in the air and mixing with other earthy salves hit the elf-king's sensitive nostrils.

Taller than most of the elves, Thranduil stood in the large and brightly lit lobby of the infirmary, head frantically turning and looking every which way; finally, a healer caught sight of him and walked up to greet him.

"King Thranduil, what a pleasant surprise. How may I help you?" the middle-aged Silvan female asked with a kind and warm smile. Dark brown hair tied neatly in a bun gave her a matronly appearance that was a welcomed sight. In her hands she held a brightly colored bouquet of freshly picked flowers— most likely from the infirmary garden.

"Lord Elrond, where is he?" Thranduil asked breathlessly.

Taken aback by the urgency in her king's voice, the healer replied, "He's down that hall in the third room to the right, I believe. He was looking for some medical notes on a patient."

Thranduil thanked her and rushed down the corridor she had pointed towards.

Third door on the right. It came quickly, and it lay open.

Swinging around the doorway, Thranduil felt relief at the sight of his friend, who stood in a dark, hobbit-hole sized room with only the glow from the doorway bringing in light.

Stepping across the threshold, the smell of paper, damp, and dust met him. The dark room appeared filled to the brim with items in all sorts of disarray. Thranduil made a mental note to speak to whomever used this room and allowed it to fall into such chaos, this was an infirmary not a street market.

But at the moment, he had larger matters to attend to.

A large wooden desk stood between him and the Lord of Rivendell, though one could barely see the wood underneath the mess of loose papers and stacks of books lying strewn everywhere in the tiny and cramped space.

Behind the desk, Elrond stood focused on something Thranduil could not see; though it appeared to be of an unpleasant subject because Elrond's brow furrowed heavily and his lower teeth were bared.

"Elrond, he's gone. Legolas is gone." Thranduil blurted out. He sucked in air to try and calm himself, for his arms and legs had begun to tremble. His heart felt tight and he wanted to shout or kill something, but took to clenching his fists in the interim.

Elrond's eyes flickered and he snapped his attention away from the item on the desk and to Thranduil.

Coffee-brown eyes were wide with what could be interpreted as either fear or astonishment, and his mouth gaped open as if he wanted to say something but couldn't. Clamping down and closing his mouth, Elrond squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

"I―I am―uh, I am, uh―" he sucked in a deep breath and shakily blew it out, "Please, repeat what you just said."

Thranduil felt a spike of irritation at having to repeat himself, for his throat tightened around the words as he forced himself to say them again.

"Legolas is gone. He is not in his room and one of the palace staff said they saw him leave for the woods a few hours ago."

Something that resembled fear flashed across Elrond's gentle features; his hand clamped over his mouth and he shook his head slightly as he looked back down at the item on the desk.

"I see. That―that is not good timing, not good timing at all."

"Yes, I know that, hence why I came to you." Thranduil snapped with irritation as he scanned his friend up and down, "Is there something else I should know about?"

Elrond's face grayed slightly as he said with extreme sincerity in his voice, "We now have the answer as to why Guard Captain Tauriel did not recover from her injuries."

The words hit the elf-king like a ton of bricks. A deep and painful sadness rose up within him at the she-elf's name. He had pushed all thoughts of grief and sadness for Tauriel's loss deep into the back of his mind. Hearing her name planted next to the word 'murder' felt like a noose wrapping around his neck and tightening.

"What do you mean?" Thranduil managed to choke out.

Elrond looked down and across the desk with indecision, then he appeared to choose something. Lifting up a leather bound book, he turned the open pages towards Thranduil.

"This. I came in here originally in search of the healer Amondaer's treatment logs on a patient." Elrond glanced over to the small bed that lay unmade against the far wall with a disheveled bookshelf above it, "As soon as I dug around a bit, I stumbled upon this journal along with many other items of a personal nature. Since this had no label, I thought it may hold the notes I was looking for; what I found―" he sighed, "―just look for yourself."

Thranduil squinted at the scribbled, chaotic pen marks all over the pages, but found the penmanship to atrocious to read, "What exactly does it say?"

Turning the book back towards himself, Elrond's face darkened as he said, "This book is a diary as well as a confessional. In this book, Amondaer writes of a secret love affair with Legolas, or what he perceives to be a secret love affair."

The words fell to the floor right before they made it to Thranduil's ears, because they made no sense to the elf-king. Scrunching his face at what he thought he heard, he said, "I am sorry, what?"

With a deep inhale Elrond restated, "It appears this Amondaer is severely ill, and suffering from delusions, mainly those having to do with Legolas and his relationship to the prince. It seems he has been infatuated with your son for quite some time."

Elrond took a breath and glanced over to Thranduil who stared at him with confusion, then continued, "Amondaer has watched Legolas's constantly since he came here from Lothlorien. He has written down in this journal Legolas's every move, what he eats, what he drinks, what he thinks his thoughts and moods are each day, and how these actions are secretly Legolas's way of displaying his own affections for Amondaer."

"What does that have to do with Tauriel's death?" Thranduil asked.

Elrond's brow furrowed as he glared at the book, "Because of this unusual infatuation with Legolas, Amondaer writes about his dislike and jealousy for the close relationship that Legolas and Tauriel shared." Elrond shook his head slightly and licked his bottom lip, "When Tauriel and Legolas came back from this last mission so badly injured, this healer realized he had an opportunity; she was in such an egregious state from her wounds, he somehow managed to procure the same poison and introduce a large quantity into her system, causing any attempts to heal Tauriel to fail." Elrond features grew angry as he shook his head harder, "He rejoices in her death. It's abhorrent. But he clearly states it was he who killed her."

"Well," Thranduil swallowed the lump burning in his throat, "He will live to regret his actions, and suffer an existence far worse than anything his sick mind could imagine."

Elrond nodded his head in agreement, "Normally I would disagree in punishing the mentally ill, but in this case, this elf knew exactly what he was doing, and though he did it some degree because of his obsession with Legolas, there is another part that did it out of pure enjoyment."

Thranduil felt the words bolt through his body. Elves did not kill elves for pure enjoyment. Orcs and goblins did that. He would make sure this elf suffered a fate worse than death.

Elrond cleared his voice and flipped a page.

"Besides Amondaer's confession to murdering the Guard Captain, it does not seem to stop with her. There are plans to capture Legolas and―ugh―" Elrond tightened his lips and closed his eyes for a moment, "―let's just say unspeakable things have been fantasized about in here."

Thranduil scowled and said, "But I thought he was in love with Legolas?"

Elrond raised one brow at the elf-king and pursed his lips, "Remember, this is a deranged elf we are dealing with here, his actions may not make sense to those who are sane. And there is a fine line between love and hate for even the most rational of individuals."

Thranduil straightened his stance and crossed his arms across his chest as he frowned at Elrond, "Continue."

Elrond inhaled deeply and began again, "Apparently, he believes Legolas is also in love with him, but due to his higher social status, Legolas cannot outwardly or openly reciprocate his feelings to Amondaer.

"There are detailed logs with dates of Legolas's perceived messages of desire, " Elrond paused and glanced at Thranduil, "apparently a glance in the hall on his way out of the infirmary is a ' _secret love note from the soul'._ " The Lord of Rivendell's eyebrows rose high, and then pointed downwards in a scowl.

Thranduil shifted his weight from one leg to the other as he asked, "Do you believe there to be any truth in this?"

Elrond quickly shook his head and said, "No. These are merely the confessions of a sick elf. Amondaer speaks of how he _believes_ Legolas intentionally allows himself to be injured in battle so that he can be placed in the infirmary to 'tease' Amondaer with his presence. He believes Legolas secretly waits outside this door―" Elrond popped his chin up, pointing towards the door behind Thranduil― " and listens in on Amondaer. But, Amondaer notes that when he opens the door, Legolas has already left so that nobody catches them together."

Thranduil looked behind him at the door and then turned back to Elrond and said slowly, "I see."

"And look at these," Elrond said setting the book down and picking up a stack of loose papers and showed them to Thranduil.

Upon the yellowed pages were graphite drawings of the prince. Mostly portraits, some were of him and presumably Amondaer together, others were of Legolas by himself, smiling or looking fondly at the viewer.

Thranduil felt a cold shiver run up his spine and pierce through his shoulder blades. Seeing such stunningly accurate drawings of his son made the elf-king realize how much this healer had in fact been watching his son.

"Then, there are these." Elrond grabbed another stack of papers and showed Thranduil.

These were similar as the first stack of drawings, except one glaring difference. Each image of Legolas―especially his face―had been scratched out with a frantic and angry hand; some had holes torn through the paper where the graphite pencil had dug and scratched too irately.

The images sent an eerie, foreboding feeling through the elf-king's firing nerves.

Elrond rescinded the papers and brought the book back, "Since I have only briefly read this, it is still slightly unclear, but, I believe there are two people writing in this journal. Amondaer, and then another; a very angry and violent character." Elrond licked his thumb and index finger and turned a page and skimmed it with his eyes, "They take turns writing in here. Amondaer speaks of his love for Legolas and their apparent relationship, and also begs this other person to be stop getting in the way and to wait his―his turn." Elrond's eyes widened and he blew out a loud, audible breath, "I have never seen such a split personality before, and it makes me fear that this Amondaer character has dabbled in magic he should not have."

"I do not understand." Thranduil said, "How would this elf be able to obtain such powers?"

"With help." Elrond said with a frown.

Thranduil's eyebrows scrunched together and his voice dropped to a whisper, "But _he_ is gone."

"You know that is something we grow less and less certain of each day," Elrond said glancing at Thranduil, "I know you feel it; the change. Something is amiss." Elrond sighed, "But even if Sauron is truly vanquished, there are others who still dwell in the shadows doing his bidding. I fear one of Sauron's minions may have found a weak and insecure elf and sunk their fangs into him."

A bolt of ice shot up Thranduil's spine and he said, "What does that mean, exactly?"

"I am not entirely sure, but I am afraid this healer is no mere healer." Elrond's jaw muscle bulged as he clenched his teeth and sighed heavily, "He speaks of communing with the dead and using them to do his bidding; he is vague, but from what I can gather he crossed over to the dark side a long time ago, and somehow none of us had any inkling of it."

Elrond glanced at Thranduil, "If Legolas has gone in search of the rescue mission, that will place him in Amondaer's direct line of sight, will it not?"

A coldness spread through Thranduil's stomach at the realization―if Legolas made it to his people, he would expect safety, not danger.

"Yes." the elf-king said slowly, "Does it mention what he plans to do with Legolas if he captures him?" Thranduil asked, eyeing the book and drawings on the desk.

Elrond grimaced slightly and tilted his head, "Well, he believes Legolas to feel the same way about him, and he is willing to do anything to bring them together—such as murdering the perceived competition. He has already gone to great lengths to make that delusional dream a reality, and if he has in fact entangled himself with creatures far beyond his understanding, he may be able to succeed. But he does not elaborate on his plans past that."

Thranduil looked away as he muttered, "He has already taken one dear to me, and now he plans to take my son." Anger ignited within the elf-king, this elf went against all the laws of nature, and to know he―it―had resided within his Halls after what he had done to Tauriel made the elf-king's blood boil hot.

Images flashed before his eyes. Hot, welted, inflamed whip wounds shimmering with red wet pools of blood surrounded by dried, crusted dirt and blood; the horrendous colors lay splattered over two pale, fragile looking canvases―Legolas and Tauriel.

The ache in Thranduil's heart grew sharp and he had to look away from Elrond for a moment and shove those horrible images back into the lock box they sprang from.

That was the last time he saw Tauriel alive, and that is how he got to remember her for the rest of eternity thanks to this elf.

And now Legolas lay beyond his protective grasp, running straight towards the danger. Thranduil needed to get to him before this other elf did.

Elrond looked at Thranduil as if he read his very thoughts, "Which way do you think Legolas went?"

With several blinks and a shake of his blonde head, he replied, "I cannot be for certain, but if it were me, I would either take the most western route, or the route running directly south cutting through the mountains that lay there."

Elrond closed the book and tucked it into his robe, "If that is the case, we will each take a route. But I must make a detour first; Lord Celeborn left only a few hours ago, and I know they plan to cut across to the western road which runs along the perimeter of the forest. Let me take that way so that I might catch up to them and bring him with me, we will then meet up with you near East Bight. Hopefully our journey will end there as I hope you will find Legolas by that point and we all may return to our homes."

"Why Celeborn, exactly? I have an army." Thranduil questioned his friend.

As Elrond exited the small room back into the corridor, he turned and said, "Lord Celeborn may have some knowledge of this Amondaer character that we do not; he is also a fine warrior to have by our side when faced with an unknown, but likely powerful enemy. And," Elrond said glancing at Thranduil, "I advise we avoid bringing a large army if possible. We head towards Dol Guldur and do not want to endanger the hostages, or troops who have set out to rescue them. Let us be stealthy; I would counsel you to stay here for your safety—"

"That will not happen―" Thranduil interjected.

"―I know." Elrond responded with a knowing smile. "Bring with you your most elite and ride out immediately. Take the more direct route south while I follow Celeborn. If neither of us find Legolas on our paths, we will meet up near East Bight in two days time and find him together."

"And capture this murderous, deranged healer." Thranduil growled as he followed the shorter elf out of the dingy, hobbit-hole of a room and nodded to him in understanding.

"Yes." Elrond replied.

"My generals and troops will be ready to leave in an instant if called, but I will gather the elite and go now. I am sending two of them with you, do you think that adequate for your journey?"

Elrond nodded, "Yes, anymore will slow me down."

The elf-king rolled his shoulders back and let out a sigh, "Let us hope we find him before he crosses paths with this so-called elf."

Elrond frowned slightly and said, "As do I."

*Author note: Hope you liked this! Like I said, next chapter coming soon, I promise!

P.S. I know I went non-canon with Oropher's story line, but I felt like it isn't talked about too much, and that the situation was plausible, and it works for my story =D. Anyways, thanks so much for taking the time to read this 3


	19. Chapter 19

*Author Note: Thank you for reading and reviewing! 3

Chapter 19

The earth squished and hissed beneath his feet as he walked lightly upon the forest floor. No snow had fallen since the evening of the funeral, it's white remains melted into the earth or retreated to the foot of trees and shadows of rocks.

The air still stung with cold, and biting winds snuck up from behind, sinking frozen fangs into flesh and scraping bone. Even as an elf, Legolas found the nighttime freeze of the forest uncomfortable.

But he had determination warming his insides. And if that proved not to be enough, he wore a thick, warm cloak around his shoulders—with the hood up over his head even his ear-tips felt mild.

Deciding to take the most direct route, Legolas headed directly south toward Old Forest Road. He would arrive at the foot of the Mountains of Mirkwood in less than an hour, and there he would find a tall place to scout which way the rescue troops had gone.

If that proved unfruitful, he would try and pick up their trail from Old Forest Road.

Walking alone in the dark forest, a snapping branch sounded from somewhere off to his right.

The blonde elf froze in his tracks and listened.

Though night had fallen, the forest did not sleep; if anything is awoke. With constant sounds all around him, he had to quickly decipher which were threats and which were just forest life.

After a moment of frozen silence, Legolas deemed the snapping branch to be only forest life. There had been a chirp right after which made him suspect a raccoon mozied by somewhere nearby.

Traveling further south, away from his father's halls, the familiar sense of evil began to seep into his heart and bones.

It lay all around him here, in what was once Greenwood the Great; his father and grandfather's lands, poisoned and destroyed by fowl creatures of darkness.

For centuries Legolas had fought to clear and rehabilitate parts of the forest, to stop the sickness from spreading. In the end he knew it to be a futile endeavor, the poison always proved to be faster and stronger than even the elves.

But he would never stop trying. Even when the poison seeped right back in, that time before, when a tree or plant or rock had a moment of convalescence, where it's color returned and it's leaves unfurled, made it worth the heartache of watching another corner of the forest fall.

A weak and sickly plant emerging from its slumber and rejoicing as it basked in warm sunlight was one of the most incredible and miraculous experiences Legolas had witnessed many times over; it drove him to keep trying.

Unfortunately, as the foot of the mountains grew closer, the sickness grew stronger. More trees lay dead and decomposing on the dark forest floor, mushrooms and other fungi grew like parasites over the weak and withered that managed to stand. A hollow echo began to bounce off every tree and rock, and the creaks and cracks of the sick trees groaned louder the further in he traveled.

The elves hadn't worked on this section of the forest for many years, and it showed.

With every step further into the woods he took, the forest grew more silent. More watchful. No insects sung, no animals hunted, nothing but silence befell these parts.

And it brought the Prince of Mirkwood to peak vigilance. Here, the dangers lurked in every corner, and they knew how to move with silent stealth that even a Wood Elf found challenging.

Finally, the dense trees began to thin, and the heavy and stagnant air of the forest lightened.

He had arrived. Legolas gazed at the gigantic rock wall jutting two hundred feet straight up in the air in front of him—the Mountains of Mirkwood.

Legolas scanned the crag up and down, looking for any signs of recent travelers both humanoid and not. As his gaze reached the rock crusted floor, something caught his eye to the left.

Boulders and rocks lay scattered like dead bodies around the foot of the large, looming cliff, and the moonlight streamed down like stardust and illuminated the entire area, casting a cool, blue hue across everything around.

Legolas squinted his eyes as he searched for the pearlescent something he had seen glimmering moments before.

There.

Almost entirely hidden behind a large boulder close up against the rock face lay a pile of shiny white bones. A humanoid skull lay a leap away in front of another large rock.

Finding the remnants of a traveler here did not surprise the prince at all. If anything he found it surprising there hadn't been more skeletons on his journey so far.

Men and dwarves did not do well with the forest's sickness. Several hundred entered from various locations each year, and Legolas would guess only about sixty ever made it out; most only thanks to the elves who would find them huddled in dark corners of the forest emaciated and delusional.

 _This one was not so lucky_ , he thought to himself as he turned away nonchalantly from the moonlit skeleton and towards his destination.

Silver-white cobwebs glistened all around him; the webs stretched and hung on every rock and tree branch their makers could find, creating roads and highways for their eight-legged gods from the forest branches to the holes and cracks in the cliffs.

Legolas knew he risked running into the creatures by taking this path, but he needed to take the fastest route, and he knew himself capable of taking on the hideous pests by himself.

But, before him stood something much more awful then Giant Spiders. Something he had been dreading since he left his chambers a few hours before and decided to take this way.

Before him stood a gut-wrenchingly narrow path that had been carved out of the joining point of two high mountain peaks. Ancient and made by those long forgotten, the path cut almost straight through the mountains north to south, a considerably faster route then attempting to climb over them.

Except one had to be slender enough in some places to squeeze through, and the "spacious" parts of the trail were not much wider.

As Legolas approached the narrow entrance adorned with spider webs and jagged rocks, he glanced to either wall, gauging the distance.

He shouldn't have done that. Doing that made a his heart begin to thud hard in his chest and a lump form in his throat which he quickly forced back down.

He did not fear the creatures that may lay inside, he feared the suffocating closeness the carved path offered. Once he began his trek into the passage, there was no way out except forward.

Taking a deep breath, he unsheathed his twin blades and gently moved the spider webs out of the way.

The rock cliffs on either side of him lay only an arm-stretch away, making him close his eyes and take a deep breath in preparation.

Once steeled, he walked in. Pitch black spread out before him, for the moonlight could not reach this deep. But the cold could. The icy air nipped at his cheeks and nose, and his breath materialized as misted ice crystals in front of him. But Legolas saw well in the darkest of places, and he wore warm clothes, it was the damned walls that worried him.

To hinder the panic from rising full-force, Legolas focused his mind on what lay ahead. The forest that lay beyond this trail; the open, expansive forest that lay on the other side of this mountain range through which he traveled.

Walking deeper and deeper into the passageway, he noticed the webs grew thicker upon the walls.

 _Do not disturb the webs_ , his mother's voice echoed in his head.

Nowadays, her voice rarely came to him, except in times such as these.

As he continued through the dark and cold passageway between the mountains, Legolas smiled to himself as he thought of her; she had taught him well, and he continued to use her teachings no matter how long she had been gone.

Two hours passed uneventfully and Legolas predicted he had made it three-quarters of the way through the mountain passageway.

The walls loomed so high up above him the passageway had turned into a cave at this point; a tall tunnel boring through the rock to get to the other side.

And he wasn't going to think about the lack of air, or how close the walls had gotten over the last forty-five minutes with no end in sight, because he knew there was an end in sight—somewhere.

He did find the lack of life in the passageway surprising, though. Last time he had ventured through here his group had been besieged by Giant Spiders from the very beginning. That had been thirty or fifty odd years ago at this point, and he severely doubted it had stayed clear that long because of them.

Sometimes too clear is just as bad as not clear enough.

Giant Spiders did not just leave a home like this empty for no reason. Something lurked somewhere close by that was keeping the other creatures from making this rarely used route their home.

With blades still out and ready, Legolas trudged along in the dark. The gravel and broken rock crunched beneath his boots, and the air grew warmer and more humid, and a musty, fungal smell rose from the damp soil between the rocks.

Continuing forward, he felt the ground changing to more dirt than rock in composition. The pebbles still scattered thinly across the surface, but his feet sank slightly deeper into the earth.

Most would not have noticed this minute change, but Legolas did not remember feeling it before. He slowed his pace as the hairs of his neck began to stand on end and his nerves signaled to be watchful.

Nothing lay ahead but darkness. The trail had widened here to a good fifty feet on either side of him, but only a few hundred feet ahead the path narrowed again. It looked as if the mountains had formed a gate of stone, leaving only a foot or two between the doors.

Legolas swallowed his dread as he prepared himself for having to shimmy and squeeze his way through the narrow path up ahead.

A few more steps and his foot sunk into deep, silty earth and before he could leap back, the earth exploded in front of him, flinging him back into a wall covered in thick, sticky webs.

Fire and shrapnel flashed in his mind. All around him the earth shook as if from fear, and for a moment despair filled his heart as he thought he had been transported back to the grasslands.

The wall hit him like a ton of bricks. A pained gasp escaped his lungs at what felt like war-hammers slamming into his elbows, back, and head as they received the full force impact of the cliff wall. Quickly, the teeth-shattering vibration disbursed like a lightning bolt throughout the rest of his body, leaving him momentarily stunned and breathless.

Falling from the wall he slammed against the ground. The webs lay all around and beneath him, sticking to his hands and body. The jarring hit made his stomach sour and black blotches began to form in the corners of his vision.

But, something sharp dug into his abdomen, threatening to puncture his clothing and skin. With a whispered grunt he reached underneath him and yanked the slender object out and held it in front of his face.

A bone. In his hands he held what looked to be a long, curved, and sharp rib bone.

Glancing around again, Legolas realized he lay in a boneyard. He stared in shock and confusion at it all for a moment, for he had no idea how he hadn't seen any of this when he had entered the space.

Skeletons of all sorts lay scattered around, tied together by thick, white webs. Some so old they barely poked out from black earth, while newer victims lay atop the soil's surface like bad home decor.

Leaping up from the ground, a wave of nausea formed in his stomach and he clamped his hand over his mouth to prevent himself from hurling.

The room sloshed back and forth as if he stood on a boat, and he had to hold the wall to remain upright.

A loud and ominous shriek from the dark ruptured his confusion.

That scream came from none other than a Giant Spider.

Without thinking, Legolas pushed off the wall and picked up his blades just as a translucent, white rope shot out from the black void.

Sidestepping the attack just in time, Legolas swung his blades down and severed the web from its maker.

A horrifying scream emanated from the spider as the web fell to either side of its prey. Reeling around, it's eight legs pounded the earth like a war-drum, releasing an unpleasant scent of rotting vegetation and decomposition into the stale air.

Legolas felt his nose and eyes begin to burn as the spider tore the ground up with it's legs. The air seemed suddenly sick as he felt it moving through his lungs and tightening his chest. A deep and itchy cough rattled up his throat and he struggled to keep focus on his opponent while coughing up what felt like his lung.

Seemingly unaffected by the air quality change, the spider charged straight for the prince with it's fat, fur-coated black fangs bared.

Legolas dove to the other wall, his body slammed into the rock harder than he intended; _the damned walls are too close,_ he thought as he dodged a spear-like leg aimed at his head.

This spider was huge. It's angered screams shook the room like it planned to bring down the mountain.

Legolas had to keep moving—not only to evade the spider, but to avoid the rocks beginning to dislodge and fall from the walls higher up and down onto them.

Another sticky, white rope flew at him and he dodged and sliced through it with only a second to spare.

The spider pivoted its bulbous body around and lunged at him again; it's gaping mouth webbed with saliva and poison.

Crossing his twin blades, the spider slammed it's face into the prince's weapons, shoving him back against the wall.

Legolas strained to block the enormous beast from chomping down upon him. His eyes burned and his lungs itched and tightened; he needed air.

He knew he couldn't hold out much longer, his arms and shoulders were now trembling against the spider's gnawing mouth.

Mustering all of his strength, the prince shoved the spider back a few inches off his blades, and when it came back down he sliced it's mouth corner to corner.

Warm blood splattered his face as the creature recoiled with a screech.

Legolas dove towards the middle of the room to gain more space. Tucking and rolling, the bones grabbed and tore at him like hungry hands.

In the dark tunnel obscured by a cloud of dust, his foot sunk into a deep pile of dirt that sent him sprawling onto the floor.

Eight black eyes followed him, and when it saw him fall to the floor, the spider spun towards him with a renewed excitement and fury.

Black, furry legs rose up on either side of it's bulbous body and one by one the spider plunged them into the ground, attempting to skewer its downed prey.

 _Roll, roll, roll_. Gravelly bits of rock and bone crunched loudly against his back as he rolled side to side, barely dodging the spears in time. After each roll he quickly swung his blades one after the other, slicing into the assaulting appendages.

The tightness in his chest began to affect his breathing; each inhale became less efficient, and he found himself panting and gasping for more air.

He needed air—better air. The heaviness and muscle weakness he began to feel creeping into his limbs made him remember he had not come into this fight in good condition—the debilitating effects of the sedative could still be running through his system and causing these problems. Legolas cursed the healer once more. He needed to end this fight and fast, before his body failed him.

Looking up at the hideous, eight-eyed monster raging above him, he knew he couldn't get close enough to the body to do any real damage with his short blades.

So, time for plan b.

Scurrying to his feet, Legolas leapt over one of the outstretched legs. He dove and tumbled gaining a few yards from the spider. Rolling to his knees, he reached behind him and pulled his bow and arrow from his back.

With deadly precision and speed, the prince aimed slightly upwards and released before the creature even had time to follow him.

The singing of the arrow was short-lived before a loud thud let the prince know he'd sunk his target.

A high pitched wail emanated from the creature; a sound so terrible and shrill it pierced the elf's delicate ears like daggers.

Letting out a pained hiss of his own, Legolas tried to cover his ears from the terrible sound.

Screaming and flailing, the spider's movements became erratic and desperate. It flung itself against the wall, then stumbled back towards the room's center before spinning around and rearing at some invisible predator.

The damage the Giant Spider inflicted upon the narrow tunnel caused more rocks from the crevice above to fall like rain, pounding hard against the earth which retaliated with another cloud of rotting spore dust.

Legolas coughed and choked on the polluted air as he continued to try and cover his ears and dodge the creature's death dance.

With one last ear-splitting scream, the spider reared up in anguish and fell into a heap on the ground.

As the spider's last dying scream dissipated, an eerie silence befell the tunnel; the only sounds to be heard were the tiny clinks and clanks of the falling rocks and dust falling like rain droplets on a thicket roof.

After a minute of remaining where he had pressed himself against the wall to avoid the dying spider, Legolas slowly dropped his hands from his ears and did a quick body scan to check for any new pains or broken bones.

To his relief, he found little; a bit of a sprained ankle, but that would work itself out. But after a step, he realized his head swam more than it should, and his chest ached painfully.

Shaking his head in irritation, he dusted off his leggings and checked his weapons for any damage. It appeared his hands had taken the brunt of the earth during the scuffle―his knuckles were bloodied but his bow only dirty.

Looking in the direction he had been going, Legolas saw the carcass of the Giant Spider sitting there in a lifeless heap, an arrow sunk deep into one of it's many eyes.

With a deep breath—followed by a round of coughing—Legolas limped over to the ghastly creature. It's head still sat up two or three feet above his own head, so he sighed and did the thing he had hoped he could avoid―climb up on the grotesque thing and retrieve his arrow.

Circling around, he saw the gaping black hole bored into the earth from whence the spider had leapt. Piling dirt, bones, and vegetation into the narrow passageway, the spider had bore a large hole in the center of the ground and buried itself there, just waiting for it's unsuspecting prey to walk over it. Legolas was impressed, he had never seen the spiders use that tactic before; he would need to be more careful where he stepped.

Turning to his right, he stared at the Giant Spider's backside. It really was a giant―it's butt and legs were thicker and longer than most of its species, and Legolas guessed by the lack of other spiders around that this one had become cannibalistic and eaten it's way through the other smaller arachnids that had once lived here.

Cringing, Legolas placed his hands on the furry back. The leathery skin shifted and moved beneath his fingers, and the spiky fur jabbed into his palms as he climbed up to it's head.

He did everything he could to avoid touching the head, for it had whiskers and fur sprouting out everywhere and he refused to accidentally sink a finger or hand into one of its eyes.

Staring at the eye that had taken his arrow, black gunk oozed from the puncture; a shiver ran up his spine at the thought of the seeping discharge covering his hands, and so he quickly grabbed the arrow with both hands and used his legs and feet to propel himself with the arrow backwards off the foul creature and onto his feet.

A soft thud and crunch echoed as his feet hit the earth; the prince straightened tall and wiped the black ooze, blood and bits of fur from his arrow and placed it back in it's quiver.

Looking past the hole in the ground in the direction he had been going before the ambush, something else caught his eye.

Startling, Legolas notched his arrow again and waited.

But the thing was gone.

He knew he had seen something. The hairs standing on the back of his neck told him so; it had just been an outline, but someone or something stood in the darkness up ahead.

"Are you friend or foe?" Legolas asked, his voice scratchy and a cough wanted to follow, but he clamped down upon it and sent it back to his lungs.

From the black void in front of him, nothing moved or made a sound.

Glaring into the darkness, Legolas continued to see and then un-see a shape. A person. The outline would form and then disappear, then when his eyes moved again it would reappear, then disappear.

"Are you friend or foe?" he repeated into the blackness.

Nothing but blackness stared back at him.

Dropping his defensive stance, Legolas put his weapons away and dragged a hand over his blood-splattered face.

Those creatures in the darkness were the same as the ones he had seen in the halls. Whether they were real or not, they would only watch him, he need not waste his time.

A heat rose in his core and spread to his face at the thought of still seeing the shadows. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

He thought he was over this—this _issue_.

With a sigh and one last look around, Legolas found he felt some sense of accomplishment looking at the Giant Spider; that had been no ordinary spider, and with his handicap, most would not have been so successful.

Maybe he wasn't entirely broken. Maybe he still had something good to offer this world.

But, his hands were still stained with blood, and his feä still stained with failure. His redemption lay ahead, his absolution could only come in saving them. If he failed again, well, he would not think of that now.

This encounter had proven to him that he could at least still fight; he still had a chance.

A cough filled his lungs and he came back to the present; the humid, revolting, present. It was time to leave, to continue south.

Away from this eru-forsaken place.

*Author Note: Not too long a chapter, but the next one or two are coming soon! Thank you so much for reading and hanging in there with me, your follows and reviews really help keep me going 3


End file.
